Becca Ritchie - Hothouse Flower

“I’ll come help you. Just text me the address,” I tell Lily before I hang up. Lo’s eyes flash murderously at me, and even Connor looks pissed. Rose has been putting a serious fucking wall up between them lately. But they have a strange relationship already, filled with mind games that I can’t keep up with.

“The girls have a flat tire,” I explain. “Lily said Rose didn’t want you there.” I nod to Connor. “And since you get on Rose’s last fucking nerve…” I nod to Lo. “She doesn’t want you there either.” I stand and open my wallet, throwing a hundred dollar bill down. “I’ll drive.”

There’s no way I wouldn’t bring Connor and Lo with me.

That’s his wife and his fiancée.

I’m just the manual fucking labor.

* * *

When we arrive, Rose is crouched down beside the back right tire, the treads unraveled and the rubber flat, like they popped it somehow. She inspects the tire from a distance, careful not to grease her hands. Not because she’s a fucking girl but because Rose is OCD. She freaks when a layer of dirt crusts beneath her nails.

She’s also treating her black dress like it’s a living creature she hopes to protect. That’s not entirely right. If she had to pick between nurturing a stranded cat or saving a purse from the rain, she’d choose the fucking purse. She rests her ass on her ankles, supported by heels, very aware not to touch the ground and ruin her clothes.

I park the car behind her Escalade. The back road is quiet, no houses around, just one lane towards a hill, trees and grass. Lo climbs out first, heading towards Lily who unsurprisingly bites her nails and flips through an instruction manual, a canister of pepper spray in her back pocket.

The minute she sees him, her whole body lifts, and my brother—he wears a smile that’s rare in anyone else’s presence but hers. I’ve never really seen love until I saw them together, truly.

They kiss, and I go to help Rose just as Connor shuts his car door.

Lo has to say something. “This is the progress you made?” he asks Rose. “I thought you were supposed to be Wonder Woman.”

She huffs, her cheeks reddening with anger. “Not now, Loren.”

“How many geniuses does it take to change a tire?” Lo taunts with a smile. Lily punches him in the shoulder, and he mock winces. He rubs his arm. “That hurt, love.”

“Be nice.”

He kisses her temple. “I’m just happy you’re okay.”

This causes her to smile again. It’s cute. All of it. But it’s also annoying the hell out of me because I think of Daisy. Normally she’d be here too. Normally she’d be standing over my shoulder, peering at the car and helping me out.

Instead, I know I’m going to have to jack the Escalade by my fucking self and put in the spare. The couples are paired off, and I’m left alone this time.

Maybe a year ago, I would have been used to being the fifth wheel.

Not anymore.

Now it’s frustrating.

I don’t take Rose away from inspecting the underbelly of the car from afar. I let Connor do that.

He towers over her, six-foot-four, his hands in his pockets. “If you’re trying to prove a point that you’re better than me, you do realize that I wouldn’t have tried to change the tire myself,” he tells her. “I would have been smart enough to call a tow truck.”

She shoots him a withering glare. “Don’t make this about you, Richard.”

“You made it about me the moment you didn’t want me here.” He grabs her wrist and pulls her to her feet with strong force.

She straightens out her dress, fire still in her eyes. I bend down and start working on replacing the flat, but they’re close enough that I hear their whole conversation.

“What are you scared of?” Connor asks her with a frown.

“Je n’ai pas peur,” Rose replies in fluent French. I translate easily: I’m not scared.

I act like I can’t understand them. They think I’m just as clueless about the foreign language as Lily and Lo, but I’ve been fluent since I was a little kid. I just don’t feel like explaining why I know French to anyone. It’s easier to ignore it.

“Alors, dites-moi ce qui ne va pas,” he says. Then tell me what’s wrong.

Rose jerks her hand away from him and raises her chin. “I wanted to do it myself.”

“It’s more than that,” he says. “You and I both know this isn’t about a tire. You’ve been shutting me out for weeks.”

“If you’re so smart, shouldn’t you be able to figure out why?” She crosses her arms in challenge.

His eyes narrow. “Ne jouez pas ce jeu avec moi, chérie. Vous perdrez.” Don’t play this game with me, darling. You will lose.

I glance over my shoulder, and Rose looks a little nervous, inhaling a sharp breath. She is scared. But like Connor, I just have no fucking clue what it’s about.

“Hey,” I call to Rose. She looks at me and the tire like I’m not moving fast enough. I restrain the urge to flip her off. “Where were you and Lily going anyway?”

“Shopping,” Rose says, way too fast.

I know a fucking lie when I hear it. “Glad I fucking asked.” I shake my head and grab the spare tire.

Connor studies Rose’s features, realizing she’s not being honest either.

Rose says, “You knew what you were getting into when you married me.”

“A lifetime of challenges.” His lips rise. “Il n'y a rien de mieux.” There is nothing better.

She almost softens at his words. He strokes her glossy hair and then kisses her forehead. Before I attach the spare, I spot Lo and Lily by my Infinity.

He has her pinned against the car. They aren’t kissing, but he whispers in her ear with a smile that dimples his sharp cheeks. She’s a giant fucking red tomato, so whatever he’s telling her—it’s dirty. I’ve never seen sex embarrass someone as much as it does Lily—and I know it’s because she’s an addict, more ashamed. But she’s clearly turned on by my brother, giving him big bedroom eyes.

I shake my head.

I feel like the only normal one.

But that’s a load of crap. None of us are really normal. We’re all just strange pieces in the world. And the half that usually connects with me is thousands of miles away, in Paris.

I just hope she’s sleeping.

If I picture her in a peaceful fucking slumber, I stop worrying. It’s the only thing keeping me grounded, keeping me right fucking here. Without that image, I’d lose my shit.

DAISY CALLOWAY

4:30 a.m.

Since I arrived in Paris three days ago, I’ve slept five hours, and I’m not really sure if it can be considered sleep. I woke up screaming and thrashing at an “invisible enemy” as Ryke calls it. I can barely even remember what was grabbing me in my nightmare, but that kind of sleep is something I don’t want to return to.

Right now I am pumped full of caffeinated drinks and diet pills. I used to smoke cigarettes, the nicotine high fairly decent to keep me awake during long shoots. But when Ryke started teaching me how to ride a motorcycle, he convinced me to stop smoking. I haven’t touched a cigarette since. I don’t crave the nicotine at all. I just ache for sleep or at least a shot of adrenaline.

On the runway yesterday, I literally thought I was floating across the glassy surface in five-inch heels. I wore a peacock headpiece. I was so close to flapping my arms, and in my mind, I had already raced off the stage, down the street and jumped into an ice cold lake. I have no idea why that sounds so appealing, but it does. Anything but standing around, waiting. Sitting in chairs, waiting. So much waiting. I can’t decide if I’m more bored or more tired.

I cup a steaming coffee while a stylist pulls every small strand of my hair into a braid. I look like Medusa or possibly a dreaded girl on Venice Beach. I’d think it was cool if it didn’t take so long. I shift so much in the seat that the stylist threatens to take my coffee away.

This job would suit a million other people better than it does me.

People buzz around us, constantly moving, but it’s usually not the models who are doing the buzzing. It’s production assistants wearing microphone headsets, holding clipboards, and makeup artists and designers. I am stationary. Basically no more human than an article of clothing that a PA carries on a hanger.

A brunette model with a splattering of freckles across her cheeks sits in a makeup chair next to me. She’s getting the same braid treatment. I met her about a month ago when she signed with Revolution Modeling, Inc. The same agency as mine. Our hotel rooms are across from each other. Christina is only fifteen and thin as a rail. She reminds me a little of how I was when I first began my career. Quiet, reserved, observant—just taking it all in.

She lets out her fourth big yawn.

“Here,” I say, passing her my coffee.

“Thanks.” She smiles. “My parents don’t usually let me drink caffeine, but I don’t think they’d mind if they saw how much I’m working.”

“They didn’t come?” I frown. My mom always supervised my time at Fashion Week. At first, I thought it was because she was protecting me, but later, I wondered if it was because she wanted to be a part of this world and was afraid of missing out. Now that seems more likely.

“No. They couldn’t afford to fly here.”

She’s from Kansas, and she said it almost bankrupt her parents just to go to New York at the chance of landing an agent. Now she’s the sole breadwinner for her family. I can’t imagine that, and I think having Christina around has humbled me a little more.

“If someone offers you coke,” I tell her, “I’d just say no, okay?”

Her eyes grow as she looks between both of our stylists, who don’t even flinch, and then back to me. Cocaine is a lot of people’s upper of choice. When I was fifteen, I tried it during Fashion Week. A guy shook a little plastic packet at me and said, “This’ll help you stay awake.”

Two lines later, I’d officially jumped into the deep end of adulthood—or what felt like grown up experiences.

Christina realizes that no one really cares that I admitted to cocaine circulating around, and she nods. “Yeah, okay.”

I lean back in the chair as soon as a makeup artist decides to work on me. I’m getting double duty, two stylists at once. She pinches my chin to turn my head towards her, and she stares disapprovingly at the bags underneath my eyes.

My stomach makes an audible noise, gurgling. The stylist hands me a granola bar.

“Just eat a couple bites,” she says. “You can throw it up later.”

“I’m not into the whole bulimic thing,” I say. “Or the anorexic thing.” I sense the makeup artist listening a little too closely. Sometimes I forget that they can sell anything I say to a gossip magazine. They’ll be identified as an “inside source” when they’re quoted. “Thanks for the bar,” I tell her. I’ll taste it. I’m too hungry not to.

My body is already slowly eating itself. It’s the main reason why I want to quit modeling. My health has been tanking from the sleep stuff—add this and I know I may do some damage.

I chew on the gritty bar that tastes more like tree bark than peanut butter and almonds. Christina is finished before me since she has less hair to braid. I’m going to be here for another two hours, I swear. At least the makeup artist has joined the other girl in the braiding. I tried to do a strand by my face, but the stylist slapped my hand away.

The chair fills quickly beside me. A male model slouches down, holding a whole bowl of fruit. He notices the granola bar in my hand. “Where’d you get that?” he asks enviously.

“The tree people,” I tell him, taking another bite and passing him the granola. “What’s wrong with the fruit?”

He bites the bar and sinks back in his chair like he’s in food heaven. It makes me smile, one of the first times I’ve done so since arriving in Paris.

“Carbs,” he says, answering my question. “Craft service only has fruit and raw vegetables.” He takes a swig from his water bottle. “They told us we can eat whatever we want, but either all the waifs scarfed down the crackers and sandwiches or someone tricked me.”

“They don’t want anyone to overeat,” I say. “Some years the selection is better.”

“Last year,” he says with a nod. “Last year was better. They had muffins.”

I groan. “Don’t talk about muffins.”

“Blueberry and banana nut.”

“You are a cruel, cruel person…” I trail off and get a good look at him, realizing I’ve never met this model before.