“No,” I admit. “I was too busy explaining how I don’t want to be addicted to anything like my sister or your brother. And he said it was a good idea to start lowering the dosage.” I tuck a strand of my dyed blonde hair behind my ear. It’s waist-length and has a habit of being everywhere all the time. Like right now. I am pretty much swaddled in it.
I empathize greatly with Rapunzel. She had it rough.
Ryke glares. “Not sleeping isn’t the fucking solution, Daisy.”
“What’s a better one?” I ask seriously. I am tired, and I realize today, like most days, will be fueled by energy drinks and endorphin boosts in the form of diet pills. Yippee.
He lets out a deep breath. “I don’t know. Right now, I’m really disturbed by the fact that I knew you didn’t sleep because you didn’t scream or kick me. If you don’t wake me in the middle of the night, it means you were up the whole fucking time.” He shakes his head as he continues to think. “When you’re in Paris, are you sharing a room with another model?
“No,” I say. “No, I wouldn’t.” Because she’d hear me scream, and I’d have to explain why I have these intense nightmares. And no one knows but Ryke. Not my sisters: Lily and Rose. Not Rose’s husband. Not Lily’s fiancé （who happens to be Ryke’s brother）。
Just him. It’s a secret he’s kept for half a year. When I graduated from prep school about four months ago, I moved out of my parent’s house and into a Philly apartment. Things got a little worse, so he spends the night.
At first he just crashed on the couch.
But I couldn’t sleep, and his proximity helped keep my anxiety at bay.
Anxiety—such a weird word. I’ve never been anxious about anything before. Not really. Not until the media surrounded my family.
For the first time in my life, I’m truly scared.
And it’s not even of sharks or alligators or heights and daredevil stunts.
I am scared of people. Of things that people can do to me. Of things they’ve done.
Ryke knows my fears pretty well because I never lie to him. Two years ago, when I was sixteen, he held out my motorcycle helmet, about to teach me how to ride a Ducati. He said, “For us to have any kind of friendship, you can’t pretend with me. I’ve been involved in lies most of my fucking life, and it’s not something I’m particularly fond of. So you can cut the I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m little and na?ve bullshit. I don’t play that game. I never will.”
It took me a full minute to process the gravity of his words. But I understood them. In order to be his friend, I couldn’t save face. I had to be me. It wasn’t a lot to ask. But back then, I’m not even sure I knew who I was. “Okay,” I accepted. So far, I’ve kept my word. No lies. And in turn, I’ve opened up more to Ryke than I have to anyone else. Plus, he’s been the only one here long enough to listen.
“Are you worried about going to Paris alone?” he asks me. “You haven’t slept by yourself in four months.”
“I can’t keep you forever, can I? Like a miniature Ryke Meadows carry-on or pocket-sized version?” I try hard not to smile at this.
“I’m not a fucking teddy bear.”
I gasp. “Really? I thought you were.”
He chucks a pillow at my face.
I smile so hard.
He loves throwing things.
“If you’re scared, maybe you shouldn’t go to Fashion Week without your mom.”
“No,” I say. “I need to do this on my own.” I’ve wanted this for so long—before the shit storm blew in from the press and paparazzi. I dreamed about sight-seeing, and my mother won’t let me do that if she’s attached to my side. She’ll only steer me towards fashion designers, schmoozing everyone for the chance to be the face of their clothing line.
“Well, you have my number,” he says. “Don’t be afraid to fucking call me, okay?”
I nod, and he climbs off my bed and goes to my dresser, searching through the bottom drawer for some of his clothes that he keeps here. I trace his features quickly. He’s unshaven, so he looks a little older than twenty-five, his actual age. And his brows do this thing where they furrow hard, like he’s in a bad mood. But really, he’s just brooding.
It’s his normal expression, one that’s insanely attractive in this possessive—I will protect you even if it fucking kills me—quality that I didn’t think I would like until I met him.