“Who still buys that garbage?”
“Lily,” I say. “I think my sister’s hoping people will forget about our family.”
“She’s dreaming.” Ryke leaves my side to grab the magazine. He flips through it quickly, and I catch the main headline on the front cover before he trashes it. Photo! Lily Calloway Dating Her Fiancé and His Brother.
“What’s the photo of?” I ask curiously, rinsing the cereal bowl.
“The three of us eating lunch at Lucky’s downtown. The press can keep saying I’m banging your fucking sister, but we all know it’s a load of—”
“Shit,” I finish. “Bullshit.” I mock gasp. “Fucking bullshit.”
He stares at me with harshness that would intimidate most people. But I don’t back down. My eyes stay locked on his piercing ones, and then his lips slowly rise. “When did your mouth get so fucking dirty, Calloway?” he asks.
“The moment I became friends with you.”
“Good on me then,” he says, messing my hair with a rough hand. “I’m tailing you when we leave, by the way.”
“You’re supposed to be my pillow, not my bodyguard,” I remind him. “I already have one of those.” His name is Mikey Black. He’s in his forties and used to be a physical trainer in California. Unlike Lily’s bodyguard who’s a bit beefy and wears oversized suits, mine likes to dress in Bermuda shorts in the winter and cut-off shirts. He’s pretty cool.
“He can’t keep up with you,” Ryke says, sidling next to me. He watches as I stick the bowl into the dishwasher.
“He taught me how to surf this summer,” I refute.
“He only rides Harleys, and they can’t go as fucking fast as your sportbike. I’ve never seen him pass a paparazzi’s car when he’s with you.” That’s true. I end up being flocked by SUVs. Like tonight. I tried to outmaneuver them, but they sped up behind me, forcing me to go a little faster. And Mikey was lost somewhere with my shift from eighty miles per hour to a hundred-and-five on the interstate.
“He smells like salt water and candy,” I tell him. “Sometimes even cupcakes.”
Ryke gives me a blank stare.
“Those are selling points,” I say.
“Not for me.”
“There’s nothing better than cupcakes, except maybe chocolate cake, but that’s still in the cupcake family.”
“Sex,” he says. “Sex is better than chocolate.” He always tells me this.
“Not for me,” I use his exact words.
His eyes descend to my lips. I swear they do this time. But it happens so quickly. Maybe it was just me wanting it badly again… I don’t know why I torture myself. It’s not like we can act on anything, even if he does admit to liking me as more than just non-fucking friends.
I let the moment go. Like I always do. “What makes you think that you can keep up with me more than Mikey?” I ask.
He leans close again. “Because,” he says, “I’m the one who taught you how to ride a motorcycle.”
I smile. Yes he did.
< 8 >
RYKE MEADOWS
“Watch me,” I tell Daisy as I stand by her bedroom door. I jiggle the handle. “Locked.”
She yawns, sitting on her bed, her legs tucked to her chest. Her eyes are deceivingly at ease, but her tense shoulders say otherwise.
I do the same fucking thing every night. I head over to the window next and pull back her green curtains, attempting to lift the window. She watches my biceps contract, my muscles carving into defined lines, to ensure that I’m actually trying. “Locked,” I say.
I pass the foot of the bed and raise my eyebrows at her in jest, and I catch her small smile before I disappear into the bathroom. I check behind the shower curtain, just because I’d feel like a fucking ass if I lied to her by not doing it. And the percentage of someone breaking into her room again and hiding in the bathtub is higher than I can stomach. If I didn’t check and that happened—I’d never fucking forgive myself.
Clear.
I fill a glass with water from the tap and then return to her room. Daisy holds onto her knees so tightly that her fingertips redden. Her spine is erect as her gaze transfixes on that window.
“Dais,” I say, coming around to her side of the bed. “I just fucking checked there.” I grab her pill bottle off the nightstand. I rest a knee on the mattress so I’m near her, and I block her view of the window. “Hey.” My heart starts to hammer.
“Yeah…” She blinks a few times and then gives me the weakest fucking smile I’ve ever seen.
Aggravated, I throw the bottle at her face, and she catches it before it hits her. “Can you check again?” she asks.
“Sure.” I hand her the water, and I go back to the window. Her eyes widen and her chest rises as I show her it’s locked. The moment I try to lift the window, she flinches back in fear.
I don’t know what’s going on in her fucking head right now, but I know she has multiple reasons to be afraid. It tears my heart watching her recoil like that.
“You’re okay,” I tell her. “See, it’s fucking locked.”
She puts her hand over her mouth, and she nods, holding back tears. “Sorry. I’m jumpy when I haven’t slept in a while.”
“I know. You don’t have to fucking apologize to me.” I go back to her bathroom door and lock it from her bedroom. I installed a deadbolt on this door a week after she moved in, to give her peace of mind.
Her hands shake as she tries to uncap the pill bottle. I slide into bed next to her, wearing drawstring pants, shirtless. She’s in a pair of cotton yellow shorts and a tank top that says: Shut the Fucupcakes. I dissed her fucking love of cupcakes three days ago, and I was waiting for her to bring out that shirt. I’m not surprised she chose the last night we have together to wear it. Tomorrow afternoon, she leaves for Paris. Six days later, I’ll be gone to California.
Maybe it’s a good thing we’ll be separated. Connor and my brother think it’s fucking weird that we both haven’t dated in four months, and I guess we’ll finally have the opportunity to change that.
I steal the bottle from her hands and open it with ease. I put two in her palm.
She hesitates. “You know, I didn’t have night terrors or any other symptoms before I started taking these.”
I run my hand through my hair. “Daisy, you’ve talked to your fucking doctor about this.” For fuck’s sake, I was there when she talked to three different sleep disorder physicians about her condition. She’s taken EEGs. She’s been through multiple sleep studies. They all advise her to take the fucking pills. Because without Ambien, she won’t sleep at all. She suffers from insomnia, post-traumatic stress, and the only thing that can really help her is therapy, which she goes to routinely.
“It’s not really sleeping though, is it?” she says, eyeing the pills in her palm. “I mean, it puts me in a half-sleep.”
Parasomnia, the moments between wakefulness and sleep—yeah, I’ve learned all about it. She hasn’t had anything better than that in over six months. “It’s better than no fucking sleep.”
She nods, takes a deep breath, and throws the pills back in her mouth. She chugs half the water before setting it back on her nightstand. I watch her slip beneath the covers and set her head on the pillow, staring straight up at the ceiling. Her eyes begin to glass.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m scared to sleep,” she admits in a whisper. “I don’t want to have a nightmare.” Tears slide out of the creases of her eyes, too tired to hold them back. “But I’ll be scared all night if I stay awake. It sucks.”