Long Way Down

One

Ryke Meadows

I've scaled mountains with my bare hands, no harness or rope. I've sped down freeways at over a hundred miles per hour. I once dove off a forty-foot cliff, swam with sharks, jumped out of a fucking plane, whitewater rafted class five rapids, ran an ultramarathon in a remote Chilean desert, and some months ago, I underwent transplant surgery.

All of those moments combined are easy compared to what's happening now. I rock on the balls of my feet-for fuck's sake, I can't remember the last time I rocked on my feet.

I stop and run my hand through my hair for the millionth time. I scan the backyard as the sun falls behind spruce trees. The pool is empty, only water wings floating on the surface. Water wings-I'm used to seeing these things everywhere.

It happens when I'm living with my brother, his wife, and their one-year-old baby. Though lately, seeing high chairs, diapers, stuffed toys, and rattles sends my mind into a fucking tailspin. I exhale and wipe my forehead with the end of my gray T-shirt, restraining the urge to jump in the pool and cool down from the August heat.

The glass door opens, and I look over my shoulder. My little brother and Connor stroll through with these really fucking annoying smiles. My blood pumps harder in my veins.

"Shut the fuck up," I tell them.

Connor's grin pulls wider, stretched so far that I think it should tear his face apart. It doesn't. He's still good-looking. Fuck him. And he says, "Shutting up would require talking."

"You are now." I have my hands on my head. I'm really close to pacing, and I don't pace either. Rose paces. Loren paces. Lily sometimes even fucking paces.

I don't pace . . . do I?

I'm losing my mind.

Lo places a hand on Connor's shoulder, cutting in before he responds, "Let's not make this into a lecture. He already looks like shit."

Fucking A.

"Should I shave?" I ask, running a hand down my jaw. I usually trim more, especially in the summer, but I've kept the scruffy, I've been outdoors look since March.

"You could start with that," Connor says, his shit-eating grin blinding me. He stuffs his fists into his khaki shorts. "The hair needs some work too." His blue eyes flit to my unkempt brown hair, the thick strands just doing their natural fucking thing.

When I don't argue with Connor but instead rake another hand through my hair-attempting to flatten the strands-his composure shifts.

He arches a brow. "You look like yourself. Just leave it alone."

"So you're saying I always look like shit?" I flatten the longer pieces over my forehead. I don't even know what the fuck I'm doing.

"Yes," he says easily. "And stop touching it."

Lo scrunches his face at the bangs I just created. "Who are you? And where have you taken my brother?"

I don't have a fucking answer.

Connor approaches me, confidence in every deliberate step. When he's inches away, eye level with me, I piece together his plan.

He's still grinning as he says, "Don't bite me."

"Don't give me a fucking reason to."

Without hesitating, he starts fixing my hair. I cross my arms over my chest. The last time I was this close to Connor Cobalt, I punched him in the face. It was as complicated back then as this is now. I don't hate the guy, but never in a million fucked-up years did I think I'd let him play with my hair.

"Jesus," Lo says, laughing. "Please let me record this."

"If you want a fist to your face," I mutter.

Connor is practically gloating. I'm seconds from shoving his chest, but he wouldn't purposefully make me look worse-not today. Not for this. We may not always seem like friends, but we are. We're probably better friends than most.

And why do I even care this much about hair?

Loren cocks his head at me, his arrowhead necklace against his black V-neck shirt. "I'm your brother," he says dryly. "You wouldn't hit me." He flashes a sardonic smile. His lightheartedness lives somewhere beneath all of that edge.

And yeah, I have hit him. In the dead heat. In the Utah desert. Until red dust covered us both in exhaustion and fury. All that's in the past, along with any bad blood between us.

He just says shit to say shit.

Connor touches the longer hair by my forehead, and I push him off now. He barely sways. Instead he purposefully takes a single step back.

"Just leave it," I tell him. Then I comb my hand through my hair without realizing. Fucking fantastic.

Connor arches another brow at me. "You're a lost cause. I don't know why I even try."

I flip him off and just do my natural hair thing. Messy. Disheveled. No system or order. I know I look more like myself, but this day has me disoriented, more than I've ever fucking been.

With a dissatisfied once-over, Connor gestures to my clothes: jeans, a plain gray tee and a waterproof watch. "Your attire needs work."

"I'm not going on a date with you, Cobalt."

"Of course you're not. I have high standards. Ones that you can't meet."

I shake my head at him a couple times, and then I jump a little on my feet, shake out my hands, and crack my knuckles. I just struggle with letting things out, verbally, and if I ever need to do it right, I'd want to do it today.

"You need a drink?" Lo sinks down onto a patio chair, his forearms resting on his kneecaps. "It'd help those nerves."

I meet his amber eyes, and he gives me another half smile to show that he's kidding. I never find the humor in these jokes, and maybe that's why he keeps it up. Anyway, I've grown used to this fucking nonchalant offer of alcohol, and I've never seen him as healthy as he's been in the past year.

If we flashed back to Paris at that bar, I think the Loren Hale today would shake himself for taking a drink and giving me one. In fact, I know he would.

If that's not strength, then I don't fucking know what is.

"Is that a yes?" Lo banters.

"Fuck off."

Connor chimes in, "Fifty-two 'fucks' in twenty minutes. Just so you know how redundant your vocabulary is."

My phone vibrates, saving me from talking to Connor. I slide my cell out of my pocket and check the text.

Lunch tomorrow?-Dad

My stomach overturns, and I quickly text back: no.

I let out a tense breath. "This is a fucking sign." I hold up the phone to show Connor and Lo the message. "He texts right now? It's not a good time-"

"Since when do you buy into superstition?" Connor asks me in one of his annoyingly calm voices.

"Yeah, you sound like Rose." Lo doesn't even focus on the text. His eyes are right on me, and I see more sincerity in them. Something that says, don't be afraid.

I'm afraid of watching the people I love get hurt. I'm afraid of hurting the people I love. Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, I'm going to fall into one of the two.

I end up shrugging and then pointing at both of them. "You know what? I'm going inside. You two can fucking stay out here."

I step over Moffy's plastic Batman car, a toy that Lo complained about for a good week before conceding. Lo's love for Marvel was finally trumped by his son's love for a DC toy.

I hear Lo speaking loudly as I slide open the door. "You think we hurt his feelings?" Asshole. Even as I think it, I nearly smile. I love my little brother. Truth is, I thought we'd kill each other living together, but it's brought us even closer in the past year and a half. He's also a lot less aggravating to live with than Connor Cobalt.

I wasn't that upset to see Connor move down the street. It mostly sucks in early mornings when I'm in the gym. Connor used to spot me since Lo doesn't wake up that early.

Do I miss him nagging me for information about Daisy's therapy sessions? No. Do I miss him quizzing me about literature and languages? No. Do I miss his constant need to make everything a fucking cock show? Absolutely fucking not.

But yeah . . . sometimes I miss that motherfucker.

Not today though.

I shut the sliding door. The sun has already disappeared outside.

Two

Daisy Calloway

I pack double fudge ice cream onto a sugar cone. Three scoops. It melts a little and drips down my knuckles onto the hardwood. While I suck it off my hand, my white Siberian husky perks up from her curled position, nestled beside the cupboards.

Uh-oh.

She excitedly nears the droplets of chocolate and tries to lap them up with her tongue.

"Coconut, no." I squat down and push her back a little. "I know it's a horrible fact-gruesome, really-but chocolate is toxic for dogs." She stares at me with a blank look. "I can tell you're taking this hard." I insensitively lick my ice cream cone, but it's melting fast. "I bet in dog heaven you can have all the chocolate you want." I add, "But don't think about leaving me that quickly, okay?" I scratch behind her ears with my clean hand.

She sits down in obedience and delight, nudging her head closer to my palm to keep going. I love her a lot, maybe because her temperament is a mixture of sweet, nurturing and fearless. I wish I could be all of those one day, without compromise or hesitation.

I go still and listen to the growing sound of footsteps, but I don't jump or panic at the noise. Partly because of Coconut's presence-but mostly because I believe in this moment that no one can hurt me.

I just rise to my feet, and Ryke Meadows emerges into the kitchen. I haven't seen him all day, which isn't unusual. Some weeks we're together twenty-four seven, and others we're doing our own thing, staying in communication by text and phone calls.

Earlier I went shopping and out to dinner with Lily, Willow and Rose, and they're all at Rose's house down the street. It's hard for me to be around my sisters' babies so much lately, and since both Jane and Moffy are there, I just left.

I think they knew I would anyway.

Ryke passes the bar counter and nears me.

Six-foot-three with a darkened gaze, scruffy jaw and brooding brows-he's utterly handsome. The kind of handsome that screams danger, yet I know his heart is soft and warm and a place I always want to be.

We don't speak.

We just look at each other, the silence spinning tension in my core. I smile as I lick the ice cream, and I watch him watch me, his gaze descending to my long bare legs, to my banana-print bikini bottoms, to my navy tee that says Adios Pantalones and up to his blue baseball cap, turned backwards on my head. My tangled, naturally brown hair is let loose, stopping in layers at my chest.

When his eyes finally lock on mine, I pretend to appear perplexed. "I don't think we've met before."

He almost smiles, which makes mine grow wider before I take another taste of ice cream.

"Are you fucking sure?" He steps closer, only a few feet apart. "Because I have a girlfriend who looks a hell of a lot like you."

I tilt my head, feigning confusion. I sweep his body with one long glance. "You know, it's not clicking for me." I playfully lift up the corner of his gray T-shirt and inspect his abs, a six-pack that's basically an eight-pack if I'm being technical. His hard gaze bores into me, as though fastened on any inner beauty I possess.

An electric current zips up my arms to my neck, the tiny hairs rising.

"What about now?" he asks huskily. His deep, gruff voice nearly melts me. I drop the corner of his shirt.

"My boyfriend has a ten-pack," I reply, trying to hold my seductive composure, but I'm close to laughing.

His brows rise. "Oh, really?"

"Yep," I tease.

"That sounds fucking impossible."

I mock gasp. "Are you making fun of my boyfriend?"

He swiftly pushes my hand at my face, and the cold ice cream smashes against my lips and nose.

I immediately laugh, my smile widening. "You must be him," I determine. "Ryke Meadows would totally do that." I try to lick my nose, but my tongue won't reach.

He nears me even more, his feet right beside mine, his chest pressed against me. My breath shallows. And he says, "Would he do this?" He kisses my nose, licking the chocolate, and then he sucks my bottom lip, the force winding an ache inside of me.

I kiss back just as strongly, and we collide into each other like we haven't made out in ages. His hand rises up the small of my back; my free one clutches his thick, disheveled hair. God, I love his hair. I keep the ice cream extended so it doesn't smash between our bodies.

My pelvis eagerly curves towards him, and his hand falls down to my ass, my thigh, hoisting my leg around his waist. Our lips never part, and we hungrily attack with an animalistic, carnal desire that seeps into my veins. I explore him with my hand, running my palm across his unshaven jaw, his shoulders-down his biceps.

He lifts my other leg and then pins me against the counter. A high-pitched noise breaches my throat in one breath, and his chest rises and falls heavily. My head rocks back for air, and I take a moment to catch my breath while his eyes flit across my features. Mine dance along his.

"Hi," I murmur.

"Hi," he says and then effortlessly lifts me higher, securing me against him, my body bouncing with the abrupt movement. Then he carries me out of the kitchen. I wrap my legs tightly around his waist and beam in curiosity. The thrill of the unknown place and destination excites me, but not nearly as much as being this close to the man I love.

I peek over my shoulder. We're headed towards the backyard. When I turn to Ryke, I catch sight of a smile that lifts the corners of his lips. It's a beautiful sight, even if it's momentary.

I bring my ice cream cone to my mouth and lick the side. Then I hold it closer to him. With his hands beneath my ass, he takes a bite of the cone and chocolate.