Becca Ritchie - Hothouse Flower

“Ian,” he says, taking another bite of my bar. He has muscles, not a “waif” as he called the naturally skinny guys. His face is classically beautiful like a Greek statue. I’ve seen him in a cologne ad, I think. He holds out the granola to me.

“You finish it,” I say.

“I’ll trade you.” He raises the fruit. “It’s no muffin, but…” He smiles. And of course, it’s gorgeous, full white teeth, bright and welcoming.

I like this guy. He speaks my food language. “I’ll take it.” We swap. “I’m Daisy, by the way.”

“I know. I think I sat on your face at a bus stop today.”

I mock gasp. “You sat on my face? Impossible. I don’t let strangers do that.”

He laughs. A stylist sprays blue dye in his hair. Fashion designers are crazy. I should know, Rose is one. Though she didn’t get invited here. She’s still back in Philly.

“So,” he says, “I’m six-two, blue eyes, brown hair, twenty-five…” He tilts his head towards me as his stylist pauses to reach for hair spray. “I can list off my measurements, but something tells me you won’t care about the size of my chest.” This reminds me of a similar conversation that I had with Ryke once upon a time. He was trying to convince me to eat cake.

“Your hips also don’t have to be measured in the morning,” I told him.

“They can be,” Ryke said. “Will you eat the fucking cake if I measure my hips?”

“And your ass.”

“You want to know the size of my ass?” His brows rose.

“Yep.”

“Eat the cake.”

I smile more out of remembrance from that moment than out of attraction towards Ian.

I shake my head at Ian. “Only your ass.”

He grins. “I only give that to girls I really like.”

“Damn,” I say. A pit sinks to my stomach. We’re flirting. I don’t want to taint that memory I had with Ryke by continuing this banter with Ian. It’s starting to make me a little nauseous. Maybe that’s the fruit or the one bite of tree bark. But this could be a good thing. He could be my number seven. This is what Ryke wanted, right? Stop hanging onto what could be, Daisy. Let Ryke and the past go. 

Ian wears an easygoing smile as he checks me out. “You want to meet up later?” he asks.

Maybe commenting on his ass was a bigger signal than I thought. Ryke never acted on the flirty nature of our conversations. Sometimes I forget that not everyone is like him. Most guys will prod further, not stop at a point. They want the sex. All of it. Not just the dirty talk. Maybe this is a good thing. It doesn’t feel that way.

But I think about going back to my room late tonight after runways. The balcony doors don’t have deadbolts, so it’d be really easy for someone to punch through the glass and just unlock the door from the inside. I couldn’t sleep the first night because I kept glancing at that door. Maybe having Ian around will help me calm down…and maybe sex will help me sleep without Ambien. I haven’t tried it before, but I also never wanted to medicate with sex.

I didn’t want to have Lily’s problem.

These new possibilities sound better than my current situation. So I give Ian my cell number. I also didn’t want anyone to know my hotel room, but I don’t think it’ll hurt to just tell Ian.

I feel like there’s no perfect choice here. There are a lot of negatives, a few positives, and so I just have to pick.

“Know where I can find these tree people?” he asks, waving an empty granola wrapper.

I smile. He’s not too bad.

I think I just made my decision.

DAISY CALLOWAY

By the time I enter my room, the clock strikes 2 a.m., and I only have enough time to wash my face and run a brush through my hair before Ian knocks on the door.

I peek through the peephole, ensuring that it’s just him. I can smell his strong cologne through the door, but he looks casual, wearing jeans and a blue tee. I keep staring, hesitating for so many reasons. He knocks again. I flinch at the violent noise. You can do this.

I turn the knob, and when Ian appraises my jean shorts and baggy sweater, he smiles. “Nice,” he says, motioning to the words across my chest: Bulimia’s so ’87.

He even understands a Heathers reference. Maybe he is perfect for me. “Welcome to my abode.” I wave him inside. I haven’t unpacked, so I had no time to be messy. My rolling suitcase rests by the television hutch, all zipped up. The hotel room has gold walls and red bedspreads, looking cleaner and more harmonious with the colors than any part of my apartment in Philly.

“Nice room too,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.”

He heads deeper inside, going to the balcony door that I’ve spent a great deal of time locking and shrouding with the gold curtains. He pulls them back, and my pulse speeds. I hear the click of the single lock, and then he slides open the glass door, stepping outside to see the view of the city.

“Holy shit,” he says, his voice louder so I can hear. “My room overlooks a parking garage. This is…”

I tune him out as I shut the front door, using every lock to ensure my safety and his. I even look through the peephole one extra time. The hallway is empty. Good.

And then I walk to the bed, waiting for him to come back inside. I don’t want to attract any paparazzi, if they’re here. On the chance that they spot me from the balcony, they’ll count the floor I’m on and figure out which room I’m in.

“Yeah, the view is really pretty,” I say.

Ian slips back inside, but he leaves the sliding door all the way open.

“Can you close it?” I ask, trying not to seem paranoid. I give him a small smile. “It’s kinda cold tonight.”

“Sure.” He shuts the door and then closes the curtains back. No lock. But I’ll just have to do that after he leaves. What if he doesn’t leave? What if you have sex with him? Then I’ll lock it when he falls asleep. No worries.

I sit on the foot of the bed and cross my legs, wondering where his head is at, what he wants to do right now. He eyes me a little more hungrily than before. His gaze travels across my legs, stopping at the place between my thighs.

He stuffs his hand into his pocket. Condom, I think. But he pulls out a baggy of white powder. “I thought you looked tired this morning. Want a boost?” He heads over to my dresser and begins to separate the powder into two lines.

“No,” I say. “I’ve been chugging Lightning Bolts! and taking Ripped Fuel. I don’t think coke will mix well with them.”

I uncross my legs and then stand up, pacing anxiously before I reach his side.

“Yeah, I could tell you were on something,” he says. “You were fidgeting all morning.”

“Ripped Fuel only makes me fidgety when I drink caffeine with it. Otherwise they’re just normal diet pills.” But they’re like a shot of endorphins, possibly the biggest boost I can get without heading towards cocaine and other illegal substances.

“Well, I’ll help calm you down,” he says, one of his hands reaching out and rubbing my shoulders. That’s exactly what I wanted. Despite the coke, maybe my choices in men are improving.

With his free hand, he takes his rolled dollar bill and snorts both lines. He wipes his nose, and then when he turns to me, his glazed eyes trace my lips. He guides me to the bed, the back of my legs hitting the mattress, and my heart races.

“You’re really beautiful, Daisy,” he says. And then he plants his lips right on mine, waiting not even two seconds before his tongue chokes me. It’s not that bad. I try not to gag for air, but his mouth overtakes my face, slobbering on my chin.

I hate kissing.

So very much.

I distract him by pulling off his shirt, forcing his lips to break from mine. He wears a crooked grin, his pupils like little pinpoints. I wait for Ian to hike me up on the bed, to set me by the pillow and press his body weight against me. The image flushes my skin.

But instead, he climbs onto the bed and pulls me down on top of his chest so that I’m in a perfect position to ride him.

And then he puts his hands underneath his head in relaxation. Maybe we should just skip all the awkward foreplay anyway. I did that with numbers three and four, and I saved myself an uncomfortable hour. But what’s the point of all of this if we have a quickie and then he just leaves? I want him to spend the night, don’t I?

So I begin to kiss his broad shoulders and suck on his hard abs and his muscular chest. He watches me and lets out a groan every so often.

“Lower, baby,” he urges. One of his hands has come out of hiding behind his head, but his fingers grip his hair, his mouth open as he gets off on what I’m doing. “Uhh, yes.”

I unbutton his jeans and unzip. His erection is visible through his red briefs. I stop touching him so I can yank off my sweater, no bra since my boobs are pretty small. I stand up on the bed, my body off of his, and I unzip my own shorts. He watches me with a heady expression, and I know he’s feeling the effects of the drugs.

He sits and runs his hands up my legs, his palms coarse on my smooth skin. He brings me back down on his lap the moment I step out of the jeans. Everything seems more mechanical than sensual.

“I want you here,” he says to me. He grabs my hand and brings it to his crotch, helping me find his penis. Not that I needed any help doing that. My head buzzes with erratic energy, the kind that has my skin all tingly and my heart pounding a little too hard. It’s making it difficult to discern how I feel about this current situation, me on top, gripping his dick.

He plunges his tongue into my mouth again while he moves my hand up and down his shaft. Thankfully he breaks this kiss to groan. He stares down between our bodies, at the place where my small hand is underneath his large, where I’m touching his erection, warm to my fingers.

I rest my forehead on his chest. I think I just want something more than this. I don’t even know what that more is. I keep searching and searching with guys. Is this really it? Maybe something’s still off. I have no sense of attraction, no true nerve-spindling sensations yet. The only electrifying feelings are coming from my caffeinated concoction.

He forces my head back so that he can stare at my breasts while I give him a hand job. I don’t think I’m being attentive or doing very good work, but I don’t think that matters to him. I think the idea of me, a young blonde girl (famous), on top of him is all the stimulation he needs.

He kisses my neck now. But before he even sucks on my nape, his lips descend to my chest. His tongue flicks over my nipple, and then he bites it, hard. I wince, a high-pitched noise leaving my mouth, the sound so audible. Ow. Ow. Ow.

He must take my noise as approval or pleasure because he bites harder.

I shove him off with a push on his abs. But he grabs my wrist and brings my hand back to his dick. He guides my face into his shoulder, as though consoling me, but not really because his other hand travels to my backside.

“Have you taken it in the ass before?” he asks with a heavy grunt. He moves my hand lower on his dick.

“Once,” I tell him. My boob throbs. I should end this. But maybe it’ll be better if I just wait a little longer. Maybe I dislike sex because I don’t try hard enough or I don’t give enough effort. I convince myself to wait it out.

He grabs my ass, and then his finger slips into a hole that has never been penetrated by a finger before. I go rigid, my eyes wide and horrified. Okay, I don’t like this at all. Is this normal? For once, I feel my age, and I’m more aware that I’m in bed with a twenty-five-year-old.

A guy as old as Ryke.

Everything about this feels weird. Physically, emotionally, mentally—I shift and find a way to adjust so he can’t touch me there anymore. I don’t even finish him off. I slide down to his ankles, crouching. “I’m pretty tired,” I lie. “Maybe we can do this another night.”

He gives me a long once-over. “Is it your first time? I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ll be more careful.”

“I’m not a virgin,” I say. “I told you, I—”

“You don’t have to lie. I don’t mind that you haven’t been with anyone before. In fact, it’s kind of sexy.” He grins. “I’ll go easy, I promise.” He clasps my hand and pulls me back on his lap.