“Thanks for that,” Ryke mutters, but his shoulders are more relaxed. He was worried that my past was as tortured as his little brother’s. It’s not. Lo had more against him than I ever did. He believed he was worthless because his father told him that every day, and he had to find his self-confidence that had been ripped from him.
I never lost mine.
I look between them: Ryke with his disheveled hair and brooding scowl; Lo with his sharpened jawline and daggered amber eyes. I’m a misfit when I hang around them—polished, hair actually combed—but the irony is that their insides are probably warmer than mine.
“As for the fighting,” I explain, “I took fencing, Taekwondo, and jiu-jitsu as recreational activities while I was at Faust.”
“Let me guess,” Lo banters, “chess club was full.”
“Not full,” I say. “Too easy.”
Lo’s phone buzzes and he glances at the screen. “I have to take this.” He walks over to the empty receptionist counter.
Ryke hangs by my side. I remember that he had trouble finding Daisy a Christmas present at the mall. He claimed he’s never had to buy a girl so many gifts, and it’s becoming harder, especially since she has everything she wants already.
“Does Daisy like silk?” I ask.
Ryke’s jaw hardens, his brows cinching in irritation and warning. You’d think I asked if she liked it in the ass. “For you to give to her,” I clarify. “Lingerie.”
His darkened glare basically says: don’t ever repeat that.
“You’re a pleasure.”
“Yeah? I don’t talk about your wife’s fetishes.”
I tilt my head again. “Daisy has a silk fetish?” I can barely keep my composure, my lips rising.
“Fuck off,” Ryke says. “And aren’t you supposed to be celebrating me today?”
“I left my excitement in my limo,” I tell him. “Maybe you can go fetch it for me.”
“How about no backhanded compliments or fucking insults?” Ryke squats to collect the six harnesses. “Or is that asking too much?”
“It’s asking a lot,” I tell him honestly.
Ryke finishes organizing the equipment, and we both watch Lo, who stands by the receptionist desk. He gesticulates wildly with his hands as he talks on the phone.
“He’s doing okay, right?” Ryke suddenly asks.
Cobalt Inc. is a five-minute drive from Hale Co. and I see him more during a workweek than Ryke. I’d know whether he was coping with the stress. “I think he’s doing well. Better than I predicted.” I’m happy that I was wrong. I thought he wouldn’t be able to handle the first week.
Lo isn’t the same person I met in college. He’s so much stronger than that guy.
Ryke turns his back to Lo and angles towards me, seriousness in his strict demeanor. “If something happens to me…” He clears his throat. “You’ll take care of them?”
He means Lo and Daisy. He’s waiting for me to agree. “Living donors almost never die during transplant surgery.” He shouldn’t worry about this.
“Connor,” he says, “I don’t want your fucking facts. I just want you to say that you’ll…” He shakes his head, running his hands through his thick hair like it’s a frustrating request—at least requesting this from me. “Fuck this.” He straightens up, his gaze drifting to the tinted gym window, the parking lot empty except for Rose’s Escalade.
For some reason, I keep envisioning a flock of teenagers with signs that say Marry Me, Ryke Meadows! He’s popular among the younger girls since Daisy is only nineteen. But only Walter Aimes, the Celebrity Crush photographer, should know where we are right now, today. Otherwise, Rose dyed her hair for nothing.
I suddenly say, “I’ll make you a promise. And I always keep my promises.”
Ryke turns back to me. “Yeah?”
I nod. “You die climbing and I’ll take care of them. We both know that you’re not going to die during that surgery and you’re not going to die any other way than by your own pursuits.” The longer he free-solo climbs, the shorter his lifespan. His longevity is in his hands, and for Ryke to believe it’s in anyone else’s is simply bullshit.
If he’s so afraid of leaving the people he loves, then maybe he should start rethinking his hobbies.
“You’re such a pain in my ass,” he says lightly, heading towards the locker rooms where the girls are.
I follow beside him. “Impossible,” I say, “I’ve never been near your ass.”
He flips me off, the usual response. Our friendship may be odd, but at least I can call it one.
10
ROSE COBALT
A distant ring fills my drowsy mind, and the constant, pulsing noise grows as I begin to wake from a dead sleep. I squint in the darkened room, the blue glow of the clock blinking 3:42 a.m. on my nightstand. My phone simultaneously vibrates and rings against the wood.
I numbly reach out for it, turning on my side. Connor’s arm slides off my waist. Who the hell is calling me this early? I want to murder them, but I’m too tired to think of clever ways to enact my revenge.
“Rose?” Connor whispers, waking too. He props his elbow on the pillow and runs a hand through his unkempt hair.
I unlock my phone and answer before I distinguish the words on the screen. “Hello?” I say softly, yawning into my arm. I tug the sheet closer to my chest, my nipples nearly peeking from my black silk cami. It’s not like the person on the phone line can see, but I’m too delirious to take stock in this.
“Rose, what have you done?”
Oh God. Someone kill me. “Mother,” I say icily, pressing two fingers to my forehead and tightening my eyes shut. I open them after a deep breath.
Connor relaxes against the headboard and collects his phone off the other end table.
“You dyed your hair,” she fumes, irate with this news. “You dyed your hair orange without telling me. You didn’t even consult the publicists before you went out in public. Did you do this yourself?”
“Where are you reading this?” I dazedly lift my body up next to Connor and peer over his shoulder. He scrolls through the Celebrity Crush website.
“Online,” she practically spits. “Did you hear me?”
I bite my tongue and slowly say, “I heard you, Mother.”
Connor clicks into an article, posted five minutes ago with the headline: Rose Calloway’s New Hair Color! [Exclusive Photos]. My chest begins to unbind. Five clear photos show me exiting Philly Rocks! with my sisters, Connor, Ryke and Lo. Walter Aimes zoomed in on my hair, styled in a high pony. Nothing special except that it looks like a fox died on my head.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I tell her. “And what are you still doing awake?” I feel old, asking my mother this. Connor watches me intently and I whisper to him, “Am I old?”
His lips pull upward. “No, darling. We’re still young.”
“Good,” I say, putting the phone back to my ear. My mother is answering me in a spew of heated syllables that I don’t want to digest at three in the morning. It’ll keep me up all night with an upset stomach.
I catch the tail end. “…Tori has an opening tomorrow. I already texted her, and she said she can take you at noon.”
“You texted your hairdresser in the middle of the night?” Let the woman sleep.