Hothouse Flower

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RYKE MEADOWS

I shut the door behind me, finding Daisy almost immediately. She sits backwards on her parked Ducati, the same brand as mine, only red to my black. She leans back against the gas can near the handles and props a map on her legs, a Sharpie cap between her teeth.

Her carefree nature always fucking draws me to her—even when I wish I could stay fifteen feet away. It doesn’t help that her legs are spread apart. I’m so fucking thankful she’s single right now. I hate her ex-boyfriends, and I hate how men look at her and all they see is a girl they believe they can mount. They can’t. She’s out of their fucking league, and yet, she entertains them, too nice not to.

It pisses me off.

“There’s a party inside, you know,” I tell her roughly, “and it’s for you.” I walk across the concrete floor to reach her side.

“I know,” she mumbles and then spits the cap out. “Rose and Lily shut the door on me when I tried to go to the bathroom with them. And Connor and Lo looked like they wanted to talk about something private too, so I figured I’d let them discuss what they needed to.”

I frown. “Why would your sisters do that?”

“Lily is five years older than me and Rose is seven,” she says with a shrug. “I’m used to being left out. It’s the younger child syndrome.” She sits up and hands me the map.

I scan it quickly.

“It’s for your road trip to California,” she explains. “I marked some places that are supposed to be cool.”

“You also drew a fucking smiley face over North Dakota.”

“That’s because North Dakota is the happiest state. Everyone knows that.” She grins, brightness in her eyes that I haven’t seen in a while. It’s gorgeous beyond fucking words. But at night, that light starts to slowly wane. It’s like Daisy Calloway is powered by the sun.

“Says who?” I ask, folding the map and tucking it into my back pocket.

“I read it somewhere,” she says. “I’ve forgotten the source, but I’m sure it was credible.”

“Yeah, says the girl who reads her horoscope every day.”

She mock gasps. “How did you know that? Have you been reading my diary?”

“No, I’ve just been sleeping in your bed.”

“I thought that was some other guy,” she says.

I scrutinize her position on the bike, her legs on either side of the seat, clutched tightly, still backwards. I’ve ridden on the same motorcycle with her before. She does this thing where she rests her hands on my thighs instead of wrapping them around my chest. I always have to grab her wrist when she purposefully nears my cock.

She likes to tease, to see how far she can push me, and I’ve never had a girl play with me like that, with confidence that radiates. It drives me fucking nuts, and I find myself wanting to be around her even more, seeking those give-and-take moments and her fucking joy.

But there’s a silent understanding between us. We both know we can’t cross a certain line.

“You’ve let other guys in your bed?” I question with the rise of my brows. Anger burns my muscles as I imagine the losers she’s been with, all fucking her, all older. Don’t think about it.

“Not lately.” Her oversized sweater snags on the handle behind her, almost flashing me. “Oops.”

My body heats, and the only thing that stops any kind of arousal is the idea of another strange guy getting hard at the sight of her. I don’t want to be one of them.

She adjusts her shirt, and I read the words stitched on her chest: Ooh la la.

I think it’s been about a year since she started choosing clothes with sayings—kind of like her way of talking back to the paparazzi without speaking. It’s cute.

“Have you ridden like this before?” she asks with a playful smile.

“Backwards?”

She nods.

“No. I didn’t want to kill myself the billions of times it’s crossed my mind,” I say dryly.

“I think I could do it,” she says, ignoring my sarcasm. “But you’d have to be on the bike too, steering.” Her green eyes grow big. “Can we try?”

I don’t dismiss her wild fantasies. Last week, we took the wheels off a skateboard and tried to balance on a sideways trashcan. It was more fun than it fucking sounds. But this—me on a motorcycle with her facing me—it’s an image that’s too fucking intimate. I don’t even know if she realizes this.

“My head will knock into yours,” I tell her. “It’s impossible for me to reach the throttle and the brake.”

“You can wrap your arms around me to grab onto the handlebars,” she says. “I can prove that it’ll work.” She scoots up towards the gas can, giving me plenty of room on the seat. “Unless you’re scared.”

My eyes narrow. “You can call me a fucking coward all you want, sweetheart. I’m not falling for it.” And neither is my dick.

“Then I’ll just try to ride backwards without you present. How’s that?” She’s about to turn her fucking key in the ignition. I have no doubt she’ll try.

She’s done wilder things in her free time, learning how to whitewater raft and how to fly a plane. I’ve watched her fall off the back of this fucking motorcycle. I’ve seen her crash into a tree on a black diamond ski slope. And with every daring event, I’ve been there, by her side, carrying her almost every time she’s fallen.

“Fine,” I tell her easily. I near her Ducati, and she stops fiddling with the keys. I swing my leg over and straddle the fucking seat like I normally would, facing the handlebars. She’s the one who’s all turned around.

Our knees knock together, and I’m satisfied with the fact that I can’t near the handlebars. But she’s not ready to give up. She lifts her legs on top of mine and scoots down towards me. Fuck.

She’s straddling me, her back against the gas can, lying on the motorcycle. I touch the fucking throttle and brake easily, extending my arms over her, and her chest rises and falls in a shallow rhythm, acting like I’m about to push into her. Like this is about to go somewhere it is definitely fucking not.

“You’re a wicked girl, Calloway,” I tell her. My cock is pleading with me to thrust forward, and in this moment, I visualize the one thing that keeps me down. My brother beating the shit out of me. And if that doesn’t work, I imagine Lily’s whiny voice in my ear. She’s admitted to thinking about me to stop her sexual cravings, so I don’t feel fucking bad about it.

It works. I don’t move. And my face remains dark, never letting on anything past pissed—and I kind of am. This doesn’t feel fucking good. And yet, I always end up back at this place with her because I love her company so fucking much.

“You’re right. It’s kind of uncomfortable in this position,” she teases. “We don’t fit well at all.” Her lips lift in a mischievous grin again. “I know how we could fit better—”

Fuck me. “Don’t,” I say, sitting up before her head nears mine and subsequently her lips. We’ve never kissed. I don’t plan to start now. Her feet are hiked on the back of the bike, her legs still split open to allow us room.

I fucking swear if she rocks her hips against mine one more time, I’m going to throw her off the bike. And it won’t be nice.

She smiles even wider at the risk that’s clear in my eyes. “I was just going to suggest taking off my boots. What were you thinking?”

My tongue in your mouth. My cock so far inside of you.

My gaze darkens, and I try to ignore her silly smile and roaming hands that grip the bike seat and then drift to her thighs. Some part of her is always moving.

I say, “Something that’s too fucking dirty for your virginal ears.”

She sits up like me, and her chest is only an inch or so from mine. I set my hand on her knee to keep her from scooting any closer.

She says in a more serious voice, “I lost my virginity when I was fifteen.”

“I meant that you haven’t popped your cherry on a motorcycle. I know you aren’t a virgin.” She asked her sister for sex advice on her sweet sixteen trip, and I was there to help Lily chaperone. I was filling in for my brother who was in rehab, and Daisy pretty much said that she already had sex. I just wish her first time wasn’t so fucking awful.

And I kind of wish she stopped at the first guy and waited for someone better. Like…no one. I don’t think anyone is good enough for her. Yeah, it’s fucking selfish. I don’t care.

I add, “I’m not surprised that you lost it that young either.”

She nods. “Because my older sister is a sex addict.” As if that fucking makes her one?

“No, because you try a lot of stuff, and I’m sure you felt like you were missing out on something.”

Her lips rise a little. “When did you lose it?”

“I was fifteen too,” I say. “I was with an eighteen-year-old girl.” My first time was on a fucking golf course at three in the morning.

Daisy digests this. “So you like older women then?”

“I like all women, sweetheart.”

She wears a crooked smile. “You like me?”

Fuck me. “Daisy—”

She holds up her hands, her palms touching my chest because there’s no fucking room. I go rigid beneath them. “I know, sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.” She drops her hands quickly, her breath heavy.

I try not to look at her as anything more than she can be. But she’s gorgeous, not because she has this natural fucking beauty—no makeup and bold green eyes, smooth skin and a delicate face.

She’s beautiful because she can make the saddest person in the world grin. And she can make the loneliest guy feel something more. She’s youthful and wild. Primal and really fucking innocent. She’s all these things that scream big fucking risk.

“You know, I’ve only had sex with six guys in my entire life,” she announces.

I stiffen. “Yeah?” I don’t really want these details, even though a part of me masochistically craves them. “For some, six guys would be a lot at eighteen.”

She shrugs. “I was testing out the waters.”

“And how were those fucking waters?” I snap. I shouldn’t have asked. But I do. And I’m not going to take it back.

I wait for her to answer because I know she will.