Kiss the Sky (27 page)

I don’t restrain
Ryke
. Neither
does Lo. But surprisingly, he restrains himself, pocketing his fists in his
jeans. He passes Scott, shoving him hard, shoulder-to-shoulder, before reaching
Daisy’s side and leading her out.

Scott stumbles back, but I’m more concentrated on what
happens as soon as the tinted restaurant doors open. The blinding flashes of
cameras are as bad as a flickering black-light in a club. And the shouts of the
paparazzi, screaming questions for us to answer, blare into Valentino’s
candle-lit, serene atmosphere.

Lily shrinks into
Lo’s
chest. “I
wish my invisibility superpower would kick in,” she mutters to him.

“Don’t ever wish that,” he says and kisses her cheek. “Then
I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“Teleportation then.”

“Yeah, I’m still fucking praying for that one.” He squeezes
her shoulder.

Rose and I watch them closely, waiting for them to safely
exit the restaurant and grow the strength to move forward. Scott has already
followed
Ryke
and Daisy outside.

I study Rose for a second. Her neck is rigid, her shoulders
locked back, and she looks ready to enter a fiery ring of hell. But she’s not
breathing.

“Tout
va
bien
se passer,” I whisper.
Everything will be
fine.

“Comment sais-
tu
?”
How do you know?

“Because I’m here,” I say with all of my confidence, willing
it in my voice, my posture, my
being.

Her lips rise, but she doesn’t mention how arrogant I am
today. Her hand drops to mine, and she holds it tightly. And we watch as Lo
finally encourages Lily to take her first steps outside.

[ 23 ]

CONNOR COBALT

One hour. That’s how long I slept. My mother
called me in to
file
paperwork at
midnight. It wasn’t a job a CEO would ever have to do, but she likes to test my
tenacity—how badly I want the position.

Well, I want it badly enough that I need a second
prescription of Adderall. How’s that?

I took a nap on the couch, but I had to get up to finish a
research project, so here I am. Sipping my sixth cup of coffee and submitting a
paper via email. My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter as I refill the coffee
pot for Rose.

I glance at the screen and read the caller’s name: FREDERICK.
I collect the phone, making my way onto the back patio before I answer it. “I’m
heading to your office in fifteen minutes,” I tell him, resting an elbow on the
edge of the large hot tub. My breath smokes the chilly air.

I hear the
click
click
of a camera, and I spot paparazzi on the street,
their arms and lenses sticking out of car windows. I don’t spin around, not
caring whether they have a photo of me or not.

“That’s why I’m calling,” Frederick says. “You’re not seeing
me anymore.”

I know this is about the Adderall. I texted him last night
to sign-off on a refill of my prescription. He never replied back.

I take a long sip of my coffee, ignoring his comment and the
firmness in his voice.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you try to predict the future. You failed by the
way.”

“That prescription was supposed to last you six months,
Connor. You weren’t supposed to take those pills every day. And I don’t want
you coming to sessions anymore, not when you can use that time to sleep.”

“I sleep just fine.”

“Then you’ll be
fine
if
I don’t sign-off on your refill.” He’s not bluffing, and my silence prods him
to continue. “Get some sleep. I don’t want to talk or see you until you’re in a
healthy routine.”

“You would desert your patient just like that?” I say
calmly. I have to sit down on the steps of the hot tub, the rejection like a
slap to the face, even if I don’t show it in my voice, even if Frederick’s
actions come from a place of sympathy. It hurts that he’d be so quick to dismiss
me when he’s been my counsel for twelve years.

“If I believe it’s in your best interest, yes, I would.”

“What’s in my best interest,” I say, “is to talk to my
therapist, not to sleep my day away.”

“We can talk in three weeks when you’re back on your feet.”

“I’m always on my feet.” I glance at my position right now.
I am literally and figuratively sitting down. Wonderful.

“Connor,” he says, drawing out my name so I listen closely,
“you’re not inhuman. You don’t need me to remind you of what you’re feeling.
It’s there inside your head.”

 
I rub my dry,
scratchy eyes as I process his words. After a couple seconds, I say, “You’re
not expendable to me, Frederick. You’re necessary to my life.”

“I know. This is only temporary.”

“Okay,” I give in. I lose this fight. Only with Frederick do
I concede so easily. I trust his advice more than I do my own at times. That’s
the highest praise you can get from me, by the way. “I’ll sleep and see you in
three weeks.” No more Adderall. I already know that Wharton is going to be the
first to suffer from this choice. And yet, I don’t care as much as I would have
months ago. My priorities keep shifting. “I have a lot to talk about,” I add.

“Category?”

“Rose. Sex.” I only say this as bait. I have no real desire
to share the details of my sex life with anyone but Rose, but maybe it’ll
entice him, to change his mind about today.

“Have you—”

“Not yet. But she’s comfortable enough to do it. We just
haven’t found the time.” I can almost feel Frederick smiling over the phone. My
sex life is the most intriguing topic we discuss, especially since my beliefs
would be considered sideways from society’s norms.

For me sexuality is about attraction.

Whether it’s men, women—it doesn’t really matter. The human
race is filled with passion and lust. And to coin terms like heterosexuality,
homosexuality or even bisexuality makes no sense to me. You are human. You love
who you love. You fuck who you fuck. That should be enough—no labels. No
stigmas. Nothing. Just be to be. But life isn’t that kind. People will always
find things to hate.

“I look forward to it,” Frederick says, “in
three
weeks.”

“Right.” We both say our goodbyes before we hang up. I
return to the house and place my empty coffee cup in the dishwasher, trying not
to feel weird by Frederick’s dismissal. I’m going to take his advice and sleep.
But I don’t want to wake Rose by crawling into bed, so I head downstairs to
sleep on the lower level—the room that Daisy used to share with a few rats.
It’s clean now, but we’ve been using it for storage.
 

As I climb down the stairs and walk along the short, narrow
hallway, something bangs against the wall. I face the door and listen closely
before I enter, focusing on the sounds. Maybe…groaning and grunting.

The noises grow louder, and I distinguish an unfamiliar male
voice from the heavy panting.

“
Ahhh
…yeah…baby, right there. Good
girl.”

 
I feel justified in
opening the door because whoever’s having sex shouldn’t be having sex down
here. So I turn the knob, but it clicks. Locked.

I hear some muffled cursing from the guy. “Someone’s trying
to come in,” he says.

I don’t want to jump to irrational conclusions. Like it’s
Rose on the other side. There’s no reason it would be her. Logic says it’s not.
But I begin to stupidly imagine Rose on her knees with some other fucking guy.

I pound my fist against the wood. “Open up.” A lump lodges
in my throat at this unnatural, senseless fear.
She’s not in there, Connor.

The door swings open within seconds of my request, and I
stare down at Daisy. I try to shelve whatever sudden concern I have and look at
the situation a little more analytically.

She just barely cracks the door, and she blocks the inside
of the room with her body, consequently hiding her boyfriend (I hope) from view.

I study her form. She’s fully dressed in sweat pants and a
tank top. Not flushed. Not sweaty. Not glowing or happy. But she doesn’t look
pissed either. Just disappointed. Unsatisfied. And maybe even a little glad
that I interrupted.

“What do you need?” She gives me a congenial smile, and it’s
rather convincing. If I wasn’t so brilliant at reading people, I’d think she
was having the best day of her life.

“Who’s your friend?” I ask, choosing to be direct.

“Oh…you heard him…” She taps her fingers against the door
frame and cranes her head over her shoulder. “I told you, you were being loud.”

“That happens when a girl gives good—”

“Breakfast,” Daisy says, her smile brightening. “I think I
should make breakfast for everyone.”

“Do that,” I tell her, “and I’ll talk to your friend while
you cook.”

She waves me off casually. “There’s no need for that. You’ll
see him in the Alps.” She clears her throat. “Production is making him go on
the trip.” She rocks on her heels nervously, her only giveaway right now.

So this
is
her new
boyfriend. “And you don’t want him to come?”

She shrugs. “I’m happy that we’re going to get away from the
paparazzi for a week, but I’m not too excited at the idea of Lo and
Ryke
giving him the third degree.”

“He should start with me then, ease him in,” I say,
manipulating her a little. But it’s for a good cause. “I just want to have a
civil conversation.”

“Sure. That sounds good.” But I see the worry behind the
façade she’s created. Daisy has a talent at hiding her true feelings, something
I’m an expert in.

Before she leaves, she turns around in the hall and talks
while she walks backwards. “Could you…maybe do me a solid and not mention to
Rose that Julian was making those noises?”

That’s strange.

Rose knows Daisy is sexually active. She’s also a proponent
for women exploring their sexuality, even if she’s been too timid to explore
her own. Based on the lack of sweat and flush, I assume Daisy wasn’t having
sex.

“Rose won’t care,” I end up saying. But Daisy knows this, so
what’s the real problem?

 
Daisy clasps her
hands together. “Right. Good.” She jabs her thumb towards the stairs.
“Breakfast then.” She disappears, leaving a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Something’s not right about Julian.

I push open the bedroom door to find a tanned guy with
tousled brown hair and an unshaven face. Most likely Italian.

My first reaction: He’s definitely a model. I can tell by
his striking features alone, and I’m sure he’s someone she met at work. And
then the minute he stands in front of the mirror and combs his fingers through
his hair to style it, I see the real problem.
 

This guy isn’t a teenager. Not even close.

“Hey, man,” he nods at me. “You wouldn’t be her brother,
would you?” He grimaces, already expecting harsh words. He doesn’t even know that
she only has sisters.

“So you’re Daisy’s new boyfriend?” I ask, intentionally not
answering his previous question.

He shifts uncomfortably on his heels. “
Kiiind
of…”

“Well the term
boyfriend
doesn’t have more than one implication.” I lean my shoulder against the door
frame. “You’re either dating or you aren’t.”

He narrows his eyes like he’s confused.

“Well, we’re not fucking at all. She’s underage.” He grabs
his coat off the chair. “What do you call that?”

A lie.

“You can still be convicted of sodomy for a blow job,” I
refute. “So I call it fucking.”

His face goes pale. “Look, I’m a model. I’ve known Daisy for
almost a year. We’re just good friends.”

“You’re about…twenty-two?” I ask.

“Twenty-three.”

Fuck.
Ryke
is twenty-three. He’s going to kill him.

I shake my head.

Daisy is confused. I read it across her face almost every
time I see her. She has a career and has been treated like an adult from the
fashion industry, from agents, photographers and models like Julian, since she
was fourteen. But there are people, like Lo and Lily, who see her as a little
sister. Who treat her like she’s sixteen going on seventeen and not her
maturity level.

Age is a number that doesn’t reflect circumstance,
environment or psychology. Age matters very little to me when some thirty-year-olds
act like children and some teenagers take on the responsibility of households.

I don’t judge people based on two numbers. I judge them from
the inside-out.

I’ve contemplated talking to Daisy about her situation.
Letting her know that as confusing as it seems, it’s merely the construct of
society that’s causing her to feel lost. That, no matter how many boxes people
try to put you in, as long as you know yourself, you’ll be fine in the end.

And you may have to play by their rules, put up with their
labels and use their terms—I’ve done so all my life—but it’s what
you
believe that matters most.

But I’ll never have this conversation with her. Frederick
often reminds me that I am not the world’s psychiatrist. I can see through people,
but I have to choose who and what I want to fix. Daisy is smart enough to get
there on her own. She just needs some time.

Forbidding her friendships and relationships won’t solve her
problems. It will just be another confusing reminder that two numbers matter
more than her level of maturity. So I have to suffer being pleasant to her
boyfriend.

“Word of advice,” I say casually. “If you’re going to have
sleepovers in this house with your
good
friend, keep your orgasms to a minimum. I may not be the one to catch you next
time, and it sounds like you enjoy your balls.”

“So…who exactly should I avoid?” He laughs.