Hothouse Flower (Calloway Sisters)

by Ritchie, Krista

  “She wants to stay with me,” Ian speaks up. “Right, Christina?”

  Daisy wraps her arm around Christina’s shoulder. “We’re partying together, sorry.”

  “She has a voice,” he tells Daisy, waiting for Christina to make a decision.

  She timidly points towards the door. “I’m going to stick with Daisy.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, and Daisy squeezes her shoulder.

  “Girl power,” Daisy exclaims with a bright smile that carries so much energy. It lights up the whole room. “Come on.” She lets go of my hand and clasps Christina’s, swinging her arm as they reach the door. Christina immediately looks relieved and smiles with this newfound happiness.

  Ian takes a step forward, and I put my hand on his chest.

  “Don’t even fucking try.” That girl has to be fourteen or fifteen, and from what Daisy has told me about her weird night with him, I doubt he cares about that girl’s age.

  He stays put, and then I follow the girls out, spotting my brother and Connor on the congested street already.

  “Everyone is a giant!” Daisy howls into the night sky. Literally, like a wolf. “We’re in the land of tall people!”

  Christina can’t stop laughing, and Daisy turns her head to see me watching.

  I raise my brows at her like what the fuck are you doing? And she howls again and points at the full moon. “Like my mating call?” she asks me.

  “I don’t see any fucking guys responding to it.”

  “I do,” she says with a smile, staring right at me.

  “Right. If that’s true, then I’ll be humping you later, sweetheart.” My eyes lighten a little more because this time—there is fucking truth to our banter.

  “Doggy-style or are you just going to be grinding on my leg?”

  “Not your leg.”

  “Higher?”

  “Well what’s the other alternative? I’m not going to fuck your ankles.”

  She raises her hands in defense. “There are some people into feet.”

  “I’m into pussy. Now you know.” My unfiltered response causes her to flush.

  She grins. “I should howl more often then.” She’s cute. She always is. I’d kiss her if I could, but I need to check on my brother.

  I glance over at Lo. He’s staring at the sky like he wishes he could settle among the stars for fucking eternity and never have to live this life. I hate that look. It’s one that I used to wear when I was fifteen, kicking shit over and screaming at the top of my lungs. I’d end up exhausted, collapsed on the grass of my yard, and I’d look up at the fucking sky and think what am I doing here? Why the fuck am I in this world? Living shouldn’t be this painful.

  My life had no meaning until I decided to turn around and meet my brother.

  I can’t lose him to this disease…or because of the choices I’ve made.

  Connor has his hand on Lo’s shoulder, his lips moving like he’s talking him down from a fucking cliff. I feel like I put him there.

  The traffic is gridlocked, taxis barely budging. We have a short walk back to the hotel, and most of the paparazzi have dispersed. Instead, the streets are full of sports fans, those red and white jerseys everywhere.

  In the distance, the Eiffel Tower glows green. The screen on the front of the fucking mammoth structure plays footage from the Rugby World Cup.

  When I glance back at Daisy, her smile is gone. She shrugs at me and then turns to Christina, whispering in her ear. I wish she had no affiliation to my brother. I wish they never knew each other—then all of this would be so fucking simple.

  The girls start watching a couple guys bicker by the curb, fighting about women or maybe the rugby game. I can’t tell from here, but they’re drunk, spitting out their insults and puffing out their chests.

  The construction nearby forces people to draw closer than they normally would. Scaffolding juts out from the pub next door, losing space, and plywood and other materials are thrown around the cement, covering divots and potholes.

  “Hey, let’s head back,” I tell Daisy.

  She nods to me but doesn’t take her eyes off the growing fight. More and more people push onto the sidewalk, separating me from my little brother. I weave in between guys to reach him. Most are models and beefy fans. I even spot a portly guy doing a keg stand, his feet held up by his friends. His jersey falls to his neck, and his large stomach lolls over his jeans. His friend jiggles his fat while they all laugh.

  When I near Lo, Connor steps aside a little, but my brother looks pained as he meets my eyes. “You shouldn’t have had that whiskey,” he says, his eyes glassing with remorse. Not I’m sorry. Those two words barely exist in his vocabulary, so I wasn’t fucking expecting them.

  “One glass isn’t going to make me fucking addicted, Lo.”

  He rubs his lips and lets out a bitter, dry laugh. “Lucky you.” He cringes at his sharp words and just shakes his head.

  “We should go back to the hotel—” An elbow digs into my fucking back, the force pushing me into someone else. I look up and realize a new fight has broken out behind me, between two blue-collar looking guys with beards.

  Screaming pierces the fucking air, and I’m being pushed in every fucking direction. Fights break by the curb, shoving people into the slow traffic, ramming bodies into the hoods of cars. Stumbling between vehicles. I hear the smash of glass as people start shattering car windows.

  People are yelling about the rugby game, about England’s loss. Angry fucking drunk fans are storming some of the bars, thrusting people aside. I’m trying to grab ahold of my brother. My heart runs wild as my mind catches up with me.

  They’re rioting.

  And we’re stuck in the middle of it.

  I turn my head, and a taller guy decks Lo in the face. Lo snatches his shirt and hits him back in the stomach. The guy doubles over, and someone is pulling at my fucking leather bike jacket, trying to drag me to the ground. I spin around and shove him off me.

  Daisy. Where the fuck is, Daisy?! My head whips from side to side. I don’t see where I left her. Christina is gone too.

  There are too many people running around, screaming. Fire. Someone started a fire in the pub we were just at. Flames licking the windows.

  Fuck. Connor ducks as someone swings at him, and he catches a terrified girl around the waist before she face plants on the cement.

  “Daisy!” I yell. Where the fuck is she?! I push people away from me with hostile aggression. Why did I leave her alone? “DAISY!”

  Everyone is fucking screaming. Like she said, it’s the land of the fucking giant people. With models taller than her, she doesn’t stick out like she usually does. I start looking at the ground, at fallen people, and I lift up a young girl who cries in pain, her leg bent in the wrong direction. I carry her towards a street lamp and set her beside it, out of harm’s way.

  And then just as I go back in, I spot Christina clutching onto the same iron lamp, flinching as a guy punches another man right in front of her, their bodies starting to drift this way.

  “Christina,” I call. Tears streak her cheeks.

  She meets my gaze and cries harder.

  “You okay? Where’s Daisy?”

  Christina shakes her head over and over. “She pushed me out, and then she got swept in it. I couldn’t find her…” She sobs into her hand and then points at the center of the riot, where so many men are brawling.

  I don’t think twice. I just go back in, another elbow ramming my back. A head knocking into my jaw. I shove and push and dig my fucking way through the people.

  And then I see her.

  She shakily stands. Blood trickles down her forehead, the source by her hairline, like someone ripped the strands, like they could’ve been caught in something. She teeters, disoriented. I try to reach her, but a couple guys shove me back and punch me in the face. I’m too fucking concentrated on her to feel the pain.

  I tear through them, hitting them back with as much force.

  Daisy to
uches her forehead, blinking a couple times to clear her vision. And then she meets my gaze, and relief floods her eyes.

  “Ryke,” I barely hear her say over the noise, but I see her lips form my name. Sirens blare in the distance, but no cop or ambulance will make it here anytime soon, not with this fucking traffic. Not with this madness.

  She stands on the curb. And out of nowhere, some guy comes up from behind her. I watch in slow fucking motion, and I scream as loud as I can. “DAISY!!” I shove against so many fucking people, but it’s like a current draws me back, pulling me under. “DAISY!!!”

  He holds a two-by-four, part of the construction waste on the sidewalk and street, bracing the piece of wood like a bat.

  I can’t see his face. It’s shadowed by the blur of bodies. But I do see him swing. Just as she turns her head to the side, the board smacks hard into her cheek.

  Her body thuds to the cement with the force—limp and motionless.

  I fucking lose it.

  I barrel through whatever’s keeping me from her, shouting more expletives than necessary. I worry about people trampling her body. And then I finally fucking reach her, the fastest and slowest moments of my life.

  I instantly lift her unconscious body in my arms. I have to get her out of here. That’s my only thought. I edge through the masses, glancing down at her once. Her face is turned into my chest, but I feel a wetness seep through.

  It’s not tears.

  It’s blood.

  So much fucking blood, beginning to turn my white shirt into something red.

  My heart is in my throat. I can barely breathe. I make it into an area where people frantically try to find their friends, calling out to them in French, German, English, Russian, pressing their phones to their ears.

  I can’t even look for my brother. I just think hospital. She needs a fucking hospital.

  I take a trained breath, cradling her in my arms. Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I spin around on him, about to go on the offensive, but I realize he’s older, grayed hair with glasses.

  He has a phone to his ear, his features grave. He points to Daisy and then to the street. “L’ambulance est coincée dans les embouteillages.” The ambulance is stuck in traffic.

  “À quelle distance se trouve l’hôpital le plus proche?” I ask. How far is the nearest hospital?

  He points in the direction. “Hôpital de l’Hotel-Dieu, environ 5 kilomètres.” About 5 kilometers.

  3 miles.

  With Daisy in my arms, I can fucking run that in fifteen minutes or less. I mumble thank you, and I just fucking take off.

  Her head bounces against my chest only a couple of times before I adjust her.

  I have carried this girl so many times in my life.

  But this time—this is the absolute worst.

  I run.

  One hundred and fifty miles per hour.

  I don’t fucking stop.

  Not for anything.

  I just keep going. It’s what your good at Ryke. It may be the only thing.

  < 25 >

  RYKE MEADOWS

  The moment I step through the emergency room doors, a gurney is brought out, and doctors and nurses pry her from my arms, setting her on the white sheets. The fluorescent lights burn my eyes, and sweat drips down my forehead. I try to follow the gurney back through these double blue doors, but a couple nurses block me, holding up their hands.

  “I can’t leave her,” I say. I can’t fucking leave her.

  It takes me a moment to realize the nurses’ lips are moving—that they’ve been talking in French. They switch to English, thinking I can’t understand them. My mind is all over the fucking place.

  “Sir, you need to sit down. We’ll get you cleaned up and looked at.”

  “Come here,” the other says.

  She leads me to a chair in the hallway, out of the waiting room and next to a large white scale and counter.

  “I can’t leave her,” I say again. “I have to go back there.”

  “She’s being admitted,” the forty-something nurse tells me. Her tawny hair chopped at her shoulders. She wears pink scrubs, and I glance at her nametag. Janet. “They’re taking care of her right now. She’s in good hands.”

  The other nurse, in teal scrubs, is a little younger and brunette. She dabs a piece of wet gauze on my eyebrow. I didn’t even realize it was fucking bleeding.

  I stare at the floor, holding back a scream that so badly wants to rip through my body. Why? I want to know why her. Why did this have to fucking happen? This is a nightmare. I’m going to wake up. Any fucking second now.

  But I don’t wake up. I’m here, in a foreign city, at a hospital, covered in blood. “Arms up,” Janet orders. I mechanically do as she says, and she pulls off my shirt. I glance down at my hands once, finally registering how red they are, my palms stained with Daisy’s blood. My stomach overturns.

  “Margery, a bucket,” Janet says quickly.

  The brunette nurse puts a cream tub underneath my chin, and I vomit.

  “What’s your name, honey?” Janet asks, rubbing my back.

  I wipe my mouth with my forearm. “Ryke.”

  She shares a look with Margery, as though recognizing me now, from television and the news. Thankfully they don’t make a big scene. My hands shake as I take out my phone and dial a number. I press it to my ear, and the line doesn’t even fucking ring. My brother’s cell just shuts off.

  Not him too. I can’t lose these two people today. I can handle a lot of fucking shit, but not this. I don’t know how to handle this. I shoot up from the chair, and I dial the number again, my hand on my head. Both nurses watch me with even more concern.

  “I have to find my brother,” I say aloud, my heart pounding.

  “Let me show you to the bathroom,” Margery says. “You can wash your hands—”

  “I have to find my little brother,” I say with the shake of my head. I dial again. Nothing.

  “You’re in shock,” Janet says slowly so I understand. “Please, you need to calm down.”

  I think I’m being pretty fucking calm right now considering. Hot tears well in my eyes, and I ignore their requests. I call Connor next.

  He answers on the second ring. “Where are you?” he asks, his voice spiking with fear. Fear—from a guy who’s composed at every fucking moment.

  “The hospital. Where’s Lo?”

  “He’s fine. He’s with me.”

  I try to breathe normally. I try to accept this, but it barely lifts the weight off my chest. “Why wasn’t he fucking answering?”

  “Someone stepped on his phone. It’s trashed. We’re coming to you. Is Daisy with you at the hospital?”

  “Yeah.” My voice chokes at the word, and I pinch the bridge of my nose to stop from breaking down and crying. I rarely ever fucking cry. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve shed a fucking tear.

  There’s a long pause before Connor asks, “Is she alive?”

  The question sends me to my fucking knees. I breathe heavily, no amount of training preparing me for this agony. I shake my head and I say, “I don’t…I don’t know.”

  I could have been carrying a girl without a pulse for three miles. I didn’t check.

  I just ran.

  < 26 >

  RYKE MEADOWS

  It’s been five hours. Connor has argued with the doctors for four of those, trying to persuade them to let us see Daisy, but it’s been “family only” visiting hours, so we have to wait until the morning before friends can enter her room. They won’t say if she’s brain dead. All we know is that she’s in a room and she’s breathing.

  For once, Connor Cobalt can’t talk his way through a bad situation. I really fucking wish that wasn’t the case tonight. When I tried speaking to the doctor, I started yelling, and they called security out, so I’ve sat my ass on a maroon leather chair in the carpeted waiting room. Watching the clock barely move. A television is on a news channel, playing footage of the riot that continu
es to destroy Paris and local stores.

  I can barely watch it without feeling sick.

  My brother is passed out beside me, a purpled shiner on his right eye. He didn’t say much when he arrived, but he wore a similar haunted look that I had. Janet gave me a clean white T-shirt, so at least he didn’t see the blood on me.

  Now I’m in a new stage of grief, my body numb, my mind starting to slow down. And I know partly it’s from being stabbed in the fucking ass with a sedative. I have to thank Janet for that too.

  My phone buzzes for the seventh time. I read the caller ID: DAD. I contemplated changing the name to “Jonathan” a few times, but he’s still my father. No matter how much I wish that wasn’t the case.

  He hasn’t texted at all, so I figure he’s goading me to answer with each irritating ring. It works. I’m too emotionally exhausted to reject him this time. I put the phone to my ear. “What do you want?”

  He exhales in relief. “You’re successfully trying to give me a fucking heart attack, Ryke.” He mutters a few more curses under his breath before asking, “Is Loren okay? His phone just cuts off every time I call.”

  “He’s fine.” I glance at my brother again, his chest falling in a heavy sleep, induced by alcohol.

  This may be the worst night of my life. I failed the two people that matter most to me.

  “The news has pictures of you near the riot before it started. I thought you might have gotten caught in it.” I hear the clink of a glass hitting the lip of another, as if he’s pouring a drink.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “Wait for a goddamn second,” he says. “I want to know how you are.”

  How am I? Numb, but my emotions try so hard to surface and pour through me. I could scream until my voice leaves me. I could run until my legs buckle beneath me. I could hit the wall until exhaustion defeats me. And my fucking father is asking me this. I swallow a rock in my throat. “You’re the last person I want to talk to right now.”

  “We do need to talk, Ryke.”

  “Why? Are you going to fucking accuse me of taking Lo away from you again?” When Lo went to rehab for the first time, our dad acted like I brainwashed him. Like rehab was the bad fucking choice. Like Lo wasn’t even an alcoholic.