They found us.

I run a hand through my hair. I promised my brother freedom from this bullshit. I’ve failed him. Then the cameraman peers out of the bush, noticeable, and I lock eyes with him, my body blazing with anger. I start to charge forward, and Connor grabs my arm and forces me back by his side.

“You can’t go to court again,” he says.

The fucking cameraman no longer cares about “candid” shots that sell big to tabloids, he’s taking a video instead.

“Fuck them,” I tell Connor. “They shouldn’t be here.”

“This is public property,” Connor says. “He can legally be in the woods.”

“I said shouldn’t. How’d they get tipped?”

“RV,” the cameraman says. “I’m friends with the two guys camping next to you. Called me last night. Flew in this morning.”

I shake my head. It’d be more of a coincidence if the paparazzi didn’t get their tips like that. But mostly it’s from fucking friends and connections.

“Fucking fantastic,” I snap. I made a mistake. We should have gone to a fucking hotel. I shouldn’t have tried this. I head back to the campsite, ready to pack up. Rose is already folding chairs and pouring a water bottle on the fire.

The cameraman follows us like a shadow, entering the campsite as though we gave him permission to come hang out with us. Oh wait, we fucking didn’t.

“How many more of you are coming?” Connor asks.

He just smiles, and that’s when I hear tires and an engine groan up the hill. And then two more photographers pop out of the bushes in addition to however many are in the car. Fuck me.

“Ryke,” the guy says, his camera pointed at me as I head to Daisy’s tent. “What were the sleeping arrangements like?”

Before I unzip it, I spin around and the camera guy almost runs straight into my chest. He rights himself while a glare sears in my eyes. My fists clench. “Back the fuck off,” I growl. “You came into our campsite and disrupted our vacation. Don’t act like this is for your fucking job.”

“I’m allowed—”

“You’re allowed to breathe because I’m letting you,” I refute. “Back up and give me ten feet before I put you in the fucking ground.”

“You can’t touch me.”

I near him, and he takes a couple steps back. “You think I care about going to jail for a few hours? Fucking test me, and your thousand-dollar camera and those fucking pictures will be gone in an instant.”

He stays put where he is.

I’m so heated I can barely see straight. I open Daisy’s tent and duck my head in, careful not to let the cameraman have any view of her. She yawns tiredly, barely awake and really fucking naked. I crawl in and zip the tent back. Her spine straightens as she gets a good look at my pissed expression.

“We’re leaving,” I say, grabbing my shirt that she was in. I pull it over her head quickly.

“What’s going on?”

“Paparazzi.”

“Uh-oh.” She hurries to put the baggy sweatpants back on. They fall at her waist, and I tighten the string so they stay up. “What’s the plan?” she asks, trying not to appear scared. But she still hasn’t told anyone about the cut on her face, and I’m sure she’d rather tell her mom instead of letting her find out from the tabloids.

“I’m carrying you out,” I tell her. “Front piggyback. Put your face to my chest, okay?”

“Like how Lo carries Lily?” she asks.

I didn’t realize…but yeah, that’s how my brother carries Lily in front of the paparazzi. “Yeah, like that.”

“How many are out there?”

“A fucking lot.”

She smiles. “What’s a fucking lot? Ten? A hundred?”

I give her a look.

“What?”

“Just get in my arms.” I hold them open.

She grins wider. “Say that again.”

“Get in my fucking arms, Calloway.”

She mock gasps. “I thought you’d never ask.”

I don’t smile, but my nerves slowly start to subside. She does that to me—calms me. Makes me feel like this worry is one that should be smaller, less significant.

She crawls towards me, and I lift her in my arms, her legs wrapping above my waist and her cheek pressed to my chest. I rub my fingers through her tangled, messy hair. “Hold tight, sweetheart.”

I open the tent and the lights go off like a neon bomb.

< 42 >

DAISY CALLOWAY

We’ve split up.

I’m in a black two-door sports car that Rose had rented with Lily, heading down a freeway with Ryke. Rose, Connor, Lily, and Lo took the SUV. The paparazzi parted. Some following us, others following them.

Ryke shook off the three vans on our ass in under thirty minutes. Our sports car is manual, and Ryke switched gears and cut corners sharply, driving like he owned the road. He wasn’t scared to slam on the brake at the last minute, go in reverse or hit hundred-mile-per-hour speeds. If we didn’t just have sex, I’d think it was the sexiest, hottest thing he’s ever done with me.

Now the open freeway is less exciting, but it is peaceful. And I am thankful for no tail and the crazed paparazzi.

With a bit of decent cell signal, we made a plan with the others to meet up in Utah at the Canyonlands.

I glance over at Ryke. He has his hard eyes set on the road ahead, but his hand has been on my thigh most of the drive. Now that we’re alone, truly, it seems like more of our restrictions are disappearing. I love the freedom, and I want to make it last past this trip.

“Stop, Dais,” he tells me. “That’s fucking annoying.”

I realize I’ve opened and closed the dashboard about fifty times.

“Play with the fucking window.”

“I have,” I say. “It’s revolted against me and no longer rolls down.”

He keeps one hand on the wheel and glances at me. “You have problems.”

“What a true, true statement,” I say with a smile. “Say another.”

He flips me off and then messes my hair.

I laugh. “I can’t help my fidgetiness. It’s boring in a car.” And I’ve downed five Lightning Bolts! to battle my exhaustion. Thank you, insomnia. I’ve already untied my sneakers and braided the shoelaces into bracelets. Now I’m considering playing Cat’s Cradle with the strings.

Ryke’s eyes flit to me, and then he reaches up and presses a button by the ceiling light. The sunroof groans open.

I beam, happy to have air and the wind. I unclip my seat belt and kiss his cheek quickly before standing on the middle console. A gust blows into me first, and I take a giant breath, filling my lungs. The road has very few cars. We’re on flat land with no traffic lights and few cops in sight.

I raise my arms and shut my eyes.

I’m flying.

In this moment, I’m really, really happy.

Ryke is holding one of my ankles, but his hand runs up and down my leg. The friction and mystery of what he’s going to do races my heart. But he won’t…

His gentle movements turn rough, and his fingers urgently find the button to my jeans, and he yanks them down, all with one hand.

Holy shit.

He forces them to my feet, and I clutch onto the roof to keep my balance

He doesn’t swerve the car.

Not even as he pushes aside my panties and plunges his fingers into me, filling me instantly. Oh God. This can’t be happening. I’m standing up. Half suspended out of the freaking sunroof.

He pumps his fingers into me, and my body awakens with delight and exhilaration. I reach one arm down, back into the car, and I put my hand on his, feeling how big his fingers are compared to mine.

He hits the most sensitive place, finding it with ease, and I cry out, my voice lost in the wind. After I catch my breath, he starts building me to a higher peak. I grip his wrist, never wanting him to leave this place between my legs. Dear God, send me Ryke Meadows morning, noon and night.

Then a honk blares. I can barely turn my head, so dazed with these feelings. My lips are parted, unable to close. But I notice a family van behind us. Uh-oh.

I’m about to crawl into the car, but as soon as I duck my head in, Ryke says, “Stay.” He must not be concerned about them filming us on their phones—but it’s not like they can see much. The windows are tinted. Ryke puts his knee on the wheel to steer and he sticks his other hand out the window, flipping them off.

Why is that so sexy?

His fingers move faster inside of me, driving deeper, up and down. Ahhh! I clutch harder to the roof.

Mind officially blown.

His fingers aren’t sweet. They’re rough and hard, and my knees almost buckle with the brilliant force. I’m moaning, hunched over the roof, my eyes watering from the wind.

The van lays on the horn again. And then it switches lanes and speeds to our side. A father rolls down the passenger window where his wife sits. He shouts, “There are kids on this road!”

Ryke yells back, “They’re going to fucking learn about it sooner or later. Might as well learn how to do it the best way.”

AHHH!

I disintegrate. I can’t even support my body any longer. Ryke takes his fingers out, and I drop down onto my seat and breathe heavily. I rest my forehead on his shoulders, my mouth agape. When I look through his window that he’s ignored, I notice that the wife is flushed, the husband enraged.

I don’t care.

That was awesome.

They honk again.

Ryke slams on the gas and takes off, leaving them far behind us. His fingers glisten, and he wipes them on the inside of his shirt before passing me my jeans.

When I finally breathe normally, I slip my pants back on. “Have you done that before?” I wonder. It seemed like he knew what he was doing.