An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach like a hollow pit. “Retaliation number one ended badly,” I remind them. “I’m not sure if we should do it again.” And I love a good stealth mission.
“I agree with Lily.” The commanding voice originates from the hallway, Connor’s loafers clapping on the hardwood as he emerges in the kitchen.
Connor Cobalt just agreed with me.
This is a monumental occasion. I almost start cheering, but Rose’s yellow-green eyes have penetrated Connor’s incoming six-foot-four body.
“You don’t have a vote here,” Rose dismisses him easily. “Girls only.”
He steps nearer. “Are you asking for special privileges because of your gender?” It’s a question that causes Rose to cringe. Her husband faces her, only a few feet apart.
“So what do you want us to do?” Rose combats. “Nothing? Wait for them to attack again? Next thing you know, they’re going to throw dildos in Lily’s face!”
“That’s already happened before,” I mumble.
“Not from your own neighbors.” She makes a good point. No sex toy projectiles have landed my way while around the house. “This is supposed to be a safe place for everyone. It’s why we’re living together. I’m not torturing myself with Ryke’s constant mess and Loren’s presence for nothing.”
Daisy spins the cap on her Ziff bottle. She claims the flavor is better the longer you suffer through the iron-like taste, but deep down, I know she’s drinking it to be a supportive girlfriend. The Ziff rock climbing event is soon, and Ryke will officially become the face of the sports drink.
“Can we call the cops? Or file a report?” Daisy wonders.
“Not without evidence,” Connor explains. “And as soon as one of us makes a claim, it’ll be on the front page of every tabloid.” This is a big reason why I hesitate to run to the police. I ping-pong between protecting Moffy at home—from the teenagers—and then protecting him from the rabid media, which’ll explode with the new headline. They always swarm after a good story.
The neighborhood teenagers seem harmless compared to the psychological damage that the media can cause. I don’t want my son to be five-years-old, afraid to go outside and be berated with cameras…like I was when we first entered the public eye.
The doorbell rings, and I jump. “OhmyGod,” I slur “What if it’s them?” Maybe they’ve come to apologize? Yeah, okay, fat chance.
Rose’s heels clap as she marches to the door.
“Rose,” I call out, eyes wide. “It could be a trick.” Like another bucket or worse.
Daisy hops off the stool, but she hesitates and lingers back. My fearless sister is frightened right now. I clasp her hand and watch Connor take a few lengthy strides, his legs much longer than Rose, and before his wife can protest, he’s in the foyer and opening the door.
Very softly, Daisy whispers, “I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”
Chills prick my arms. “You won’t be…one day.” I nod resolutely at this idea. “It’ll just take time.” From someone who’s battled pieces of her mind, I know this fight. We can wish for it all to be better, but it’s bigger than us. It feels out of our control, but somewhere deep down, it’s in reach.
I want to express this to my little sister, but the new voice in the foyer extinguishes my thoughts.
“I should really have my own key. Three of my four daughters live here.” My mom—she shows up unannounced all the time, but never to see me. I usually hide out in my room or the nursery. Maybe that’s my fault too. I should be more sociable.
“I’ll have one made for you,” Connor says as he returns to the kitchen. Rose looks ready to claw out his eyes. Then again, Connor could be lying to our mom. Trying to win her over.
In two quick seconds, Samantha Calloway appears: her strand of pearls choked against her neck, her brown hair pulled into a strict bun. She places her white designer purse on the bar counter.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Rose asks unenthusiastically.
“Don’t be so hostile, Rose,” our mother refutes. “I just wanted to stop by and say hello. It’s Saturday.”
“So it is,” Rose grumbles.
Our mom spots Daisy, and her demeanor lightens, like she’s found a purpose for visiting. “Oh honey, I thought you were planning on dying it back to honey-blonde.” She approaches Daisy and inspects the platinum-blonde strands between pinched fingers. “I’ll make an appointment for you at the salon—”