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.
“Just a fucking 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 fucking once-over known to man. If that doesn’t fuck with my head and my dick…