Daisy locks eyes with one of the cameramen, her lips curving. “I don’t kiss boys who ride motorcycles.”
I almost smile, but her one quote shoots off ten more questions from each cameraman. We walk forward, and people keep congregating around us.
“Daisy, someone weird is behind you,” a cameraman suddenly says.
“Yeah, there’s a creeper. You better watch out, Daisy!”
I turn my head and find a leering guy who edges too close to her. No camera in his hand, but he’s touching her f**king hair. And a scissors sticks out of his pocket. I immediately push back his f**king arm, giving him a warning glare. I’ve been to court three times for smashing cameras. I even punched a “pedestrian” and was charged with assault. Even if that f**king pedestrian was peering into Daisy’s apartment window with binoculars. I couldn’t prove it. He said he was bird watching. And he was on the street, public property.
Such bullshit.
He throws up his hands like I’ve infected him or something. Fucking A.
I stand behind Daisy and usher her forward, gripping her shoulders. “What was it?” she asks me, trying to catch a peek.
“Just a f**king guy.”
She puts on a good front when we’re outside. She’s not alarmed or scared like Lily usually is. She’s just energetic and lively. At night, when she’s alone, that’s a different story.
She spins around and walks backwards so she’s facing me. Her eyes start at my hair and descend to my feet in the slowest f**king once-over known to man. If that doesn’t f**k with my head and my dick…
The camera flashes are blinding at this point.
There’s something hypnotic about the light going in and out on a beautiful girl. One second I can see her fully, the playful smile and bold green eyes. The next second, she hides in the dark of the night completely.
It also scares the f**k out of me. There’s three feet in between us. For every step I take forward, she takes one back. And in those dark moments, I wonder if she’ll be gone for good. I imagine the light flashing and she’s no longer smiling. And then with the next burst of light, I picture fear in her eyes.
That one possibility pushes me to Daisy like a soul-crushing force. And I grab her by the waist, about to spin her around, but she suddenly stops. Our bodies knock into each other. Everyone is watching. The tension is enough to choke us.
“Move,” I tell her roughly. “Or I’m going to throw you over my f**king shoulder.”
She stays put, her smile growing. And I’m f**king glad I now have an excuse to carry her. Daisy annoying the f**k out of me—that’s a common back and forth we have in front of the paparazzi.
I swiftly pick her up, my hands on her hips, and I toss her over my shoulder. She lets out a laugh, and I rest my palm on her ass.
Yeah, her father doesn’t really f**king like me.
This won’t help.
Connor thinks I’m an idiot to do things that put me in a bad light—especially since I don’t bother to clarify my intentions. But in the end, they’re going to think what they want to think. I can’t empty my soul to every person who thinks I’m an ass**le. I can’t even empty it to the people who matter.
When we reach the doors to the bar, I gently set her down, and the cameramen are shoved back by some bouncers. We’re let in almost immediately, passing a long line of people who’ve probably been waiting for thirty minutes to enter.
The moment the door closes behind us, the noise only intensifies. Boisterous drunk people—not my favorite f**king setting. Some of them are models, beautiful features, thin girls.
And there’s my brother. He actually looks like a model, easily fitting among them with his sharp cheekbones.
His ass is on a f**king barstool, the pub smoky. Connor is right beside him, drinking a glass of water like nothing is wrong.
I’m going to kill them.
“Daisy!” a girl exclaims. A freckle-faced model, really young, hugs Daisy with a big smile.
“Christina!” Daisy grins. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes flicker to me once like I’ll be okay. Go to your brother.
So I let her catch up with her friend while I make my way to the bar. “Hey,” I say, putting a hand on Lo’s shoulder. He sips his Fizz, acting like there’s no alcohol in the dark-colored soda. “How was shopping?”
“Boring,” Lo says, eating a fry from a plate that he shares with Connor. He glares at the shelves of liquor behind the bar, looking like a murderous little f**k. I don’t know how else to describe my brother when he starts drinking. He always has that I hate you and everyone in this f**king place look. The difference is that now it’s intensified by a thousand.
I nod repeatedly, my eyes flashing hot. I grab the f**king stool beside him and drag it over to fit in between him and Connor. I’m not going to let Connor near my brother right now, consoling him. Lo doesn’t need a f**king safety net, so I cut it off in one move.
Connor stays quiet, not arguing with me.
I flag down the bartender, a young French girl. “What can I get you?” She speaks English well.
“What he’s having.” I point at the glass.
Lo finishes off his drink in one swig. “I’m done. Let’s just get out of here.” He stands.
I clamp my hand back on his shoulder. “Sit your ass down. I want a f**king drink.” I force him back in his seat.
“You sound like Dad, you know that?” he retorts, shooting a bullet my way to get me to stop.
That’s not good enough. I need him to tell me what he just did. I ignore him, watching the bartender make my drink. She puts in the ice.
“Ryke,” Lo snaps.
I turn to him. “What?”
I think he’s going to come clean, but I realize he’s watching the bartender out of the corner of his eye. Then he says, “Let’s go.”
“I told you. I want a f**king drink.”
He goes quiet, and the bartender squirts Fizz into the glass. I’m guessing she’s already added the alcohol while I was looking at Lo.
He clenches his teeth and rests his forearms on the bar, deep inside his head as he stares off. I wonder if he’s going to stop me. I want him to admit that he drank. Instead he continues to stay silent, even as the bartender slides the glass over to me.
“Refill?” she asks Lo.
He shakes his head. “No, I’m good.”
“Cheers.” I raise my glass at him, and he watches me with narrowed f**king eyes. I put the rim to my lips. Stop me, Lo.
This is a high stakes game of chicken.
And he doesn’t move a muscle or say a f**king word.
I tip the glass back, and the sweet taste of Fizz mixes with the sharpness of whiskey.
Scotch whiskey.
He drank alcohol.
The more I repeat it, the more irritated and concerned I become. I drink half the glass, waiting for him to say something, to grab it out of my hand. But no matter if regret flashes in his eyes, he watches with a cold, dead gaze like I deserve this shit. Like this is my penance for ignoring him for over twenty years.
I set the glass down.
And it takes me a moment to process the weight of what happened.
I just broke my nine years of sobriety.
I stare right at him. “I hope you enjoyed that.”
“Which part? Me drinking or watching you do it?”
I am trying not to explode on him. My muscles are on f**king fire. I grab the glass again, about to down the last of it, but he surprisingly steals it from me, passing it to the bartender.