Page 85 of Bitter Rival

When I saw how disappointed she was, the words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.

So here I am at a riverfront festival surrounded by all the “weird and wonderful” while Daisy snaps photos of everything that captures her interest.

Women in corsets and fishnets carrying parasols. Men in goggles and pith helmets. Kids running around with their faces painted like lions, zebras, and tigers. An entire marching band dressed in pinstripes and sailor caps. Goths and burlesque dancers and aging hippies. Twenty-somethings who look as if they just came back from Coachella.

This is Daisy’s world, and I’m just along for the ride. Her personal bodyguard. Chauffeur. Photography assistant. Bag carrier.

Her backpack feels like it’s filled with bricks, but a quick glance inside reveals cameras, lenses, and a retractable tripod—all the tools of her trade.

We wander past tents with vendors selling food, art, jewelry, and costumes, and Daisy is completely entranced by all of it.

She climbs onto hay bales and platforms, and scales a precarious-looking scaffolding tower to capture the “perfect shot” while I stand below waiting to catch her if she falls.

If she comes out of this unscathed, it will be a fucking miracle.

“Stop worrying,” she says with a laugh when I help her down from the scaffolding tower before she falls and breaks an arm or a leg. “I do this stuff all the time.”

It doesn’t surprise me. She has no concern for her own safety.

I can’t erase the vision of seventeen-year-old Daisy squatting in a cockroach-infested apartment building with only a mattress on the floor.

In New York Fucking City.

Young and vulnerable with no one to rely on but herself.

Anything could have happened to her, and I shudder to think what her life must have been like at that time.

When I see Astrid again, I will fucking destroy her. It will take everything in me not to wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze the life out of her.

Not only did she ruin my mother’s life, she abandoned her own daughter.

My hands flex at my sides.

“You’re the one who taught me how to climb a tree,” Daisy says with a smile, completely oblivious to my homicidal thoughts as we walk along the river.

It’s weird now to think of her as a little kid when the way I want her is not the least bit innocent. But I’ve been reining it in. Trying my damnedest to keep our relationship platonic and not cross any lines.

Some days are easier than others. Nearly losing her towel this afternoon sure as hell didn’t help matters.

I wish I could go back to hating Daisy, but she’s made that virtually impossible.

I’m not sure when that changed.

The day she stood up for me and said that if I walked away, she would follow me out the door.

That night at the bar when I “rescued” her despite her protest that she didn’t need my help.

The kiss.

The sprained wrist that I still maintain is my fault.

The story she told me in the car.

Or maybe it was just an amalgamation of all the minutes and hours and days we’ve spent together. When Daisy showed me who she really is. Strong. Resilient. Too quick to forgive. A rebel. A fighter. A free spirit. An artist.

Now, here at this festival, she hands me her camera, and I move into the spot where she was standing and raise it.

“Can you find the subject?” she asks, standing right next to me, her arm brushing against mine, her scent invading my senses.

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