“Don’t pad his fucking ego,” he tells me. Connor’s ego is practically its own life force.
I run my hand up his arm, and then I keep it on the back of his neck. “Tell me,” I say with a playful smile. “Did you learn Russian in prep school or are you like a secret badass CIA agent?”
He draws back, any talk of his past like a repellent. But I’m curious. He can’t just speak Russian and act like it’s no big deal. “Yeah, I learned some at Maybelwood.” He shrugs. “I had an easy time picking up languages.”
That’s definitely not the whole story. “And?” I prod.
He struggles to open up, but after a long moment he says, “And when I was six or seven, my mom hired tutors. They were the ones that taught me.” He stares at the ceiling and then shakes his head. “I curse so fucking much that people assume I’m just an idiot, a good athlete, but a fucking idiot. And I don’t really care to prove anyone differently. There’s no point.”
I think it takes a really strong person to be that way, to not care what people think, even when you’re better than they say. I have no idea why he’d be satisfied with doing that. “Why Russian?”
“Because she wanted me to learn it,” he says. “I also know Spanish, Italian and French.”
I gawk. “Wait, what?” I punch his arm again. “You know French?!” Rose and Connor speak French, and he’s kept this knowledge to himself. “Oh my God.” I smile deviously. “You know what my sister and Connor have been saying this whole time?”
“Most of it is stupid.”
“Do they speak dirty to each other?” I’ve always been curious.
“Sometimes,” he says. “But when they do, I try not to fucking listen. Trust me.”
The elevator numbers blink from 10 to 9 to 8 in such a short period of time.
Ryke harbors so much inside his head, and he’s kept so much to himself through the years. He’s more solitary, more alone than I thought. Maybe he prefers it that way.
“Does Lo know?” I ask.
He frowns. “About what?”
“Russian, French, all of that.”
He shakes his head. “No. It doesn’t matter.”
“But…it makes you, you,” I say. “It’s a part of who you are, isn’t it?”
His jaw hardens. “It’s not a part I like to fucking remember, Daisy.”
Being controlled by his mom, he means. I think he chooses to forget so much from his childhood that it’s made him into some shadowy figure that’s just as tormented as his brother. I stand on the tips of my toes and kiss his cheek. “Thanks for telling me the truth.”
The elevator doors open, and I head out of them. He catches my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine as we enter the hallway. It was a quick, impulsive gesture, one that has my heart on fire.
< 24 >
RYKE MEADOWS
I press the phone harder to my ear, thinking I’ve heard Connor wrong. “Excuse me?”
“I stepped out for maybe ten minutes to talk to Rose. I didn’t think he would order anything but a Fizz and some fries.”
“You’re telling me you turned your back for ten fucking minutes and my brother downed what?”
“I don’t know. But I can tell he’s had something. He won’t look at me, so I think he’s drinking a Fizz and rum.”
“Take the fucking glass from him.” I pace across the hotel room, running my hand quickly through my hair.
“He’s upset,” Connor says. “We were bombarded by paparazzi all day, asking questions about your father. He couldn’t handle it.”
They were just supposed to be shopping along Rue St-Honoré. Lo texted me earlier that Connor bought out Hermes for Rose, having to ship most of the items back to his house. My brother seemed fine, but I should have fucking called him and asked.
“Don’t fucking try to rationalize my brother’s addiction,” I growl. “He’s sick, Connor.”
Daisy watches me with concern, putting on a maroon turtleneck over her tank top. It’s stitched with three gold Quidditch hoops and the words: I’m a Keeper. She mouths, You okay?
I can’t answer her. I just glare at the carpet. “Connor, I’m being fucking serious. Grab the fucking drink from him right now.”
“We’re at the pub beside the hotel.”
It clicks. Lo has no idea that Connor knows he’s drinking. “You want me to be the bad fucking cop?”
“He has to have someone on his side, Ryke,” Connor says. “He can’t feel like everyone’s ganging up on him.”
“He’s a fucking alcoholic!” I yell. “He’s not even supposed to be in a bar. You’re telling me you’re the smartest guy in the fucking world, and you can’t even pry a drink from his hand.”
“I’m smart enough to know that it won’t do any good coming from me. You’ve already proven to be the hard ass. I’m not taking that role.”
“I sincerely hate you right now.” I’m shaking I’m so fucking mad, and I don’t know if it’s because Connor accidentally turned his back on my brother or because I did. “You want to be his best fucking friend while I get shit on, fine. I don’t care anymore.”
I hang up, breathing heavily. “We have to go.” I look up at Daisy, and she has a purse across her body.
“Ready,” she says.
I grab my jacket, and we’re fucking out of there.
I have my hand on Daisy’s lower back while we try to navigate through the crowded streets, filled with cameramen and sports fanatics, wearing red and white rugby jerseys.
“Go England!” a drunk guy shouts with a British accent, pumping his fucking fist into the air. That fist also has a beer in it. His friends chant a victory song, even though they lost to their South American rivals.
Daisy watches the sports fans in curiosity, her eyes lighting up at all the chaos. If there weren’t cameras flocking her, I think she’d go up to one of them and start a conversation just for the hell of it.
I try calling my little brother for the third time, but he’s not answering his phone. I’m going to kill him. No, I’m going to kill Connor and then I’m going to fucking kill him.
“Are you two dating?” a cameraman asks us.
“How long have you been a couple?”
“Kiss her, Ryke.” That picture would be worth so much fucking money.
Daisy and I are always spotted out together, so that rumor mill has been churning for a while. It just makes her mom hate me more, and it makes my brother more cautious of us. But there’s never been proof beyond my hand on her shoulder, my hand on her back, hugging—nothing serious.
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 fucking hair. And a scissors sticks out of his pocket. I immediately push back his fucking 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 fucking 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.