“I know,” Ryke says tensely. “It’s a stupid theory.”
“Why?” I ask, the conversation the perfect distraction. But my hand has yet to leave the band of Lo’s black jeans.
“Do you not see these f**king guys?” Ryke says to me.
I flush. “I’m not staring…why, did you think I was?” I squint one eye at him.
Ryke shakes his head at me like I can’t even… “Are these models really turning you on right now?” I grow even hotter than before. Technically Loren Hale is turning me on the most.
“Hey,” Lo cuts in. “You don’t know what she’s going through.”
Ryke raises his hands in defense. “I just don’t see how these guys wearing sweater vests and checkered shirts could arouse any girl, not just her.”
Lo thinks about it and nods. “Point taken.”
Whaaa…I pinch his arm.
He smiles, not even pretending that it hurt.
“Just tell me what they look like,” I say, focusing on Lo’s kneecaps. If he could just move a little closer, I could swing my leg around his—
No.
“Twenties,” Lo explains. “Nice hair.”
I wait for more, but that’s it. “Horrible description.”
“If I paint a vivid picture, you might as well just look at them.”
And fantasize about someone else besides Lo? Not gonna happen. My mind is in DEFCON mode. I have to take precautions, lock it down, before it betrays me.
Lo motions to the runway and says to Ryke, “What if that’s her boyfriend?”
“The blond shirtless one?” Ryke’s face completely darkens, and his jaw hardens to stone.
“Don’t look so upset about it.”
“He’s probably twenty-eight,” Ryke retorts.
“No way, he’s most likely seventeen. Models usually look older than they are.”
“Example A,” I chime in, “my sister.” Daisy has been mistaken for a twenty-something college student as much as I’ve been mistaken for a teenager.
“Exactly,” Lo adds.
“It’s probably that guy,” Ryke says, briefly pointing to someone.
Curiosity compels my gaze that-a-way. The models aren’t nearly as attractive as Lo, so I take a relaxed breath. I find the guy Ryke picked out. He’s tall, lanky with large ears and a shaved head. I cannot see him with Daisy. At all. It’d be so mismatched. Maybe that’s why Lo and I start laughing at the same time.
From across the runway, I catch Rose rolling her eyes at us, but her lips rise as she whispers to Connor again. Despite her usual cold glare, she radiates happiness. Maybe because Lo and I are exuding some bright sentiments rather than stormy ones.
And Scott has seemed to only push Rose and Connor closer rather than tear them apart. For a brief second, the producer locks eyes with me. He combs back his dirty blond locks, his smile just as greasy as his hair.
He winks at me.
I shiver. My sex cravings begin to nosedive, and I gladly focus back on my boyfriend.
“Right,” Lo says to his brother. “Out of all the models here, Daisy is going to choose the oddest looking one.”
“I don’t have anything to go off of,” he growls, practically sulking. “It’s not like I’ve met her old boyfriends.”
I look up at Lo. “Have you met her ex? His name was…Josh, I think.” I hone in on Lo’s pink lips.
He thinks hard, and I watch his forehead wrinkle in contemplation.
Kiss him.
Later. “He had an average build, brown hair,” Lo recalls. He leans into us as he speaks to avoid disrupting the runway show.
Seriously though, everyone is talking.
That description doesn’t ring any bells for me. “Why haven’t we even seen a picture of her new boyfriend?” I ask them. “Shouldn’t he be in the tabloids?” I check them daily still, and nothing. No headlines with: Daisy Has a Hot Model Boyfriend!
“I’m with her when she’s around town,” Ryke explains, “and she refuses to bring him for some reason. It’s f**king weird.”
“Maybe he doesn’t exist,” Lo theorizes.
“I thought about that,” Ryke says, “but she had…” He cringes and gestures to his neck.
Lo groans. “God. Stop…she’s still thirteen to me.”
“What?” I perk up. Hickies. Must be hickies. But I don’t want to be called a pervert in public, even jokingly by Ryke, so I don’t offer my guess.
“Hickies,” he says. Knew it. “You’ll probably see them on next week’s episode.”
Lo groans even more and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why does she even have a boyfriend?”
“The sex,” I blurt out.
They both stare down at me like what the f**k? Their angered, dark scowls could kill, looking like brothers. I realize that sex was the wrong thing to say.
Now I raise my hands in defense. Daisy has been trying to find the “right one” for a while. But she’s always all over the place: picking up scuba diving, parkour, skateboarding, etc. On occasion when the topic surrounds guys, she always shares the same, unsatisfactory story.
“It’s a logical guess,” I whisper-hiss. “She’s trying to…you know.”
“No, I don’t know.” Ryke stares at me like I’m talking in another language. I know I’m speaking English here.
I whisper really, really softly. “She’s trying to have…an O.”
Lo covers his face with his hand. “This is more than I ever wanted to hear.”
Ryke crosses his arms over his chest. “In Cancun, she said that she had an orgasm during sex, remember?”
How can he say all of that without flinching? I’m in awe. “Rose doesn’t think she did,” I whisper. I see Lo out of my peripheral, and a naughty image flashes in my head: my lips around his cock. It’s like a memory and a prospective future.
“Lily,” Lo says, grabbing my hand.
What’d I do? My heart lurches to my throat. He caught my fingers sneaking to his zipper. Oh my God. Cameras click, click, this time, some of the lenses pointed more towards me than the models.
Lo tries to distract me with more talk and less silence. The quiet lets my mind wander, especially if it’s fueled with upbeat music and fantasy-inducing backdrops (aka Loren Hale).
“Say she really does have a boyfriend,” Lo whispers between us, “how the hell is he going to feel about the reality show?” He pats Ryke’s back. “You’re in every scene with Daisy, you realize that?” I wonder if her boyfriend already feels threatened by Ryke.
“The ass**le couldn’t even show up to her seventeenth birthday party,” Ryke retorts. “You really think he cares about Princesses of Philly? At this point, I don’t even think he f**king cares about her.”
Sadly, I think I agree.
The men’s collection ends with the designer walking halfway and bowing. He clasps his hands together in thanks, his polka-dot bowtie preppy and eccentric like the rest of his clothes. Once he leaves, the whole room softens, the music dying down.
Some women and men flip open notebooks and click pens to jot down their thoughts. Most likely press for magazines or department store owners. My importance as “Daisy’s sister” shrinks, and the intensity of this fashion show dawns on me.