I pull her closer to my side, letting her lean against me, and she kicks off her heels and curls up on the stretched leather seat.
All of our phones ping at the same time.
Loren Hale （appeared interested in Hale Co. proceedings but looked exceptionally surly when asked about rehab） needs to work on communication. 10 out of 14 love you. Well done, son. – Dad
“That wasn’t sarcastic,” Lily says softly, worry flickering in her eyes.
It’s good though. I can almost breathe again. “It’s what I want, Lil.” Maybe my voice sounds unsure because she pouts in this adorable way, her bottom lip pushed out a little further.
And then her breath shallows.
Christ. I must be eyeing her mouth too much. She squirms, readjusting and I touch her arm, her skin hot with arousal. She’ll be fine. Her crazy sex drive isn’t as high as it was in the second trimester, but she’s still a sex addict.
“So much for working together,” Ryke says under his breath next to me. But if the girls aren’t chosen, the outcome is what I wanted. Only one of us could win this position, in the end. Working together just meant they’d lose out.
“It’s how it should be,” I remind all of them.
Ryke shakes his head repeatedly. “You can’t…” he trails off and his jaw hardens.
Irritation festers in my core, and I grit my teeth. “I can’t handle it?”
He stays quiet, basically admitting that’s what he was going to say.
“Yeah? Maybe I can’t, Ryke.” My leg bounces more. “But maybe I can. I should at least be given the chance to try.” I want to be better. God, more than anything. I want to be like him.
“It hasn’t even been a whole year since your last relapse,” Ryke tells me in a controlled voice, trying not to curse me out. “I’m just concerned, as your sober coach but mostly as your fucking brother.”
Lily hooks her arm around my waist, my muscles tensing like crazy. “Whatever…” I drop it there, especially as our phones ping again.
I check the text.
Daisy Calloway （sociable and well-spoken, very engaging） needs to stop fidgeting during group conversations. 12 out of 14 love you. Great work, Daisy. – Dad
My stomach falls, and the small fight I had with Ryke now seems insignificant.
Ryke drops his phone in his lap and runs his hands over his face. “Fucking fuck…” He mumbles out more curses, and I notice that Daisy isn’t even paying attention to the texts.
“Are you okay, Rose?” she asks her sister.
Rose is pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s in pain, and Connor is rubbing her shoulders and whispering in her ear. Neither of them say a word.
I tell Daisy, “She’s probably about to cry because she knows your life is about to end.” It’s dramatic, especially for me, but maybe it’ll knock some sense into this girl.
“You all have things you love to do,” Daisy says. She braids her hair that’s now platinum-blonde, which pretty much resembles an alien to me. “I’m not giving up anything like you are.”
“That’s bullshit,” I say. “I’m not giving up a goddamn thing by being the CEO of Hale Co. I’ll still own Halway Comics.” I’ll just have twice the responsibility.
She’s nineteen, started modeling at fourteen. This girl has worked more in her lifetime than I fucking have—that’s the truth here.
Ryke adds, “You are giving something up, sweetheart. You’re sacrificing the thing you could’ve loved. One day you’re going to find it. Hale Co. isn’t your burden, and I’m going to be fucking sick if you take it.”
Daisy sips her water, mulling this over. We’re older than her. And I think she’s feeling it in this moment. She slouches, her green eyes flickering between us and then she lands on Ryke. “Who would you rather see be the CEO, me or Lo?”
“Neither,” he says immediately.
“That’s not a choice.”
He does look sick now. Like he’s going to puke or something. And I watch his face twist in pain as he contemplates each scenario. I pull at the collar of my white button-down, the suit jacket warm on top.
“Daisy, if it’s between you and me, he wants me to take it,” I interject. He needs to back me up, to have faith in me and to give Daisy a bigger reason to step away.
“I didn’t fucking say that,” he retorts.
Goddammit, Ryke. I grind my teeth, my hand shaking, and he catches the irrepressible jitter. I’m not going to drink. The words scratch my throat, itching to come out like I could scream every syllable. But it just stays an urge, a thought, and I wear the sentence on my face instead.