Joining a secret society was the equivalent of being accepted to a lacrosse team. Dressed in preparatory slacks, blazers, and ties, the lot of us were supposed to grace the halls of Harvard and Yale and repeat the same mistakes all over again.
They asked each guy the same question and each responded with a simple submissive yes and was told to drop to their knees. Then they set their sights on the next boy.
When they stopped in front of me, I stayed relatively composed. I tried mostly to hide a burgeoning, conceited smile. They looked like two apes pounding their chest and asking for a banana. The thing about me—I was not so willing to give just anyone my fucking banana. Every benefit should outweigh the cost.
“Connor Cobalt,” the blond said, leering. “Will you suck my cock?”
The question was supposed to show how willing we were to follow orders. And I honestly wasn’t sure how far they would go, all to prove this point.
What do I get out of it?
The prize would be a membership into a social clique. I believed I could obtain this a different way. I saw a path that no one else did.
“I think you have it backwards,” I told him, my smile peeking through. “You should suck my cock. You would enjoy it more.”
The pledges broke into laughter, and the blond stepped forward, his nose nearly touching mine. “What did you just say to me?”
“I thought I was perfectly clear the first time.” He was giving me the opportunity to bend down again. But if I wanted to be led by a group of testosterone poisoned monkeys, I would have joined the football team.
“You weren’t.”
“Then let me reiterate.” I leaned forward, confidence seeping through every pore. My lips brushed his ear. He liked that more than he thought he would. “Suck. My. Cock.”
He pushed me back, bright red, and my eyebrow arched.
“Problem?” I asked him.
“Are you gay, Cobalt?”
“I only love myself. In that respect, maybe. And yet, I still won’t blow you.” With this, I left the secret society behind.
Eight of the ten pledges joined me.
Three.
I was nineteen. I attended the University of Pennsylvania, an Ivy League, and stood with forty other Student Ambassadors. Eager freshman filled the auditorium, hoping to be admitted to the prestigious Honor’s Program as I once was. I would take a group of them on tour of the campus before their interview with the Dean.
“Look around the room,” the Dean told them. The freshman glanced over their shoulders to meet the faces of their competition. From my place by the wall, I briefly locked eyes with a brunette in the third row. Her narrowed, brutal stare caused the girls next to her to shrink into their seats.
But she was focused only on me.
I mouthed, Hello Rose.
She read my lips well. Die Richard, she replied back, using my real first name.
Faust defeated her prep school at the Model UN Conference over a year ago, and it was her last chance to beat me at something before I entered college. The girl smoked with anger every time she neared me, every time she was forced to hear me speak.
She made me realize that nothing was better than winning. Not even sex. Although, I had never touched Rose. She more or less spit on any guy who got too close.
“Make sure you look around,” the Dean repeated. “Because there’s a ninety percent chance that someone in this room will be your future spouse.”
I watched Rose and rubbed my lips to hide an even larger grin because I knew she was incensed by the mere idea. She would be more likely to cut a dick than ride one. Rose Calloway was the heiress of Fizzle, the daughter of an international soda empire that rivaled Pepsi and Coca-Cola. But she never let the fame define her. She worked hard and she was naturally gifted at telling men to fuck off.
I didn’t believe in luck, but by some strange coincidence, she was randomly assigned to my tour group.
“You again,” she said.
I hadn’t seen her in over a year. And yet, we picked up right where we left off. We always did.
She added, “I beat your stupid boarding school this year at Model UN, you know.”
“I wasn’t there, so I’m not surprised that Faust lost to Dalton.” I had graduated one year before her.
She sucked in a sharp breath, her yellow-green eyes trying to penetrate me, a gaze that would cause a flurry of boners among the male student body. And she wouldn’t even know it. “I’m not an idiot.”
“You aren’t,” I agreed. “You’re perceptive, but ten meters to the right is Ashley Gracen. She’d school you in any match, intellectual or athletic. In the far back, fifty meters away sits Beth Anne Johnson. She’d beat your test scores without studying.” But Rose Calloway was different from all the girls at Penn. She was fashionable. But not a sorority girl. She was a genius on paper. But not a team player. She was quick to loathe others. But not against loving.
She was a complicated equation that didn’t need to be solved.
“All that proves is that you have a high proficiency to stalk girls.”
I like to know my competition. “You must possess the same skill then.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t stalk girls.”
“No, you just stalk guys. You searched the room for me when you came in here.”
Her lips pressed in a thin line. After a long pause, she said, “I did not.”
I tilted my head, my smile bursting through. And we stared at each other for a long time. Everyone nearby watched us. But we were stuck in our own world. In our own personal battle. I wasn’t sure there would ever be a winner. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see the day where one of us demolished the other.
Then the game would end. And where was the fun in that?
“Fine,” she retorted, crumbling beneath my persuasive gaze. “I was looking for you. But only because I think you’re the most narcissistic, egotistical, self-righteous human being in the universe.”
“The universe? I didn’t realize you’re so well-traveled.”
She glared. “Shut up.”
I looked her over and thought of one thing. I heard that during a health class at Dalton Academy, her prep school, she took her baby doll and stabbed the stuffing with a pair of scissors. Another person said she scribbled over the baby’s forehead and handed it to the teacher. The note: I won’t care for an inanimate object unless the boys do it too.
People thought she was nuts—in a genius “I will devour your soul” kind of way.
I thought she was fucking fascinating.
And then Caroline Haverford broke our quick-witted banter. She strutted up to my group, cupping a Diet Fizz, her brown hair sleek on her shoulders. She rode horses every day and was another notch in the WASP community. Wealthy families, socialites, equestrian, golf, Ivy Leagues, prep schools—I had been surrounded by it all for nineteen years.
She was another face I remembered. Another name I cared little about but made sure that I knew. And she eyed me with that predator look that said, What use will you be to me? Will I marry you some day and take all your fucking money?
After a cordial greeting, practically shoving Rose aside, she asked, “Do you still fence?”
“Yes, Connor, do you still fence?” The icy voice sliced the air as Rose interjected herself again. It almost brought a full smile to my face.
Before I could answer no, Caroline set her sights on Rose. “Harper Woodrow told me you’re still a virgin.”
It came out of left field, an obvious slight that caused Rose to spin towards me and silently say, Don’t you dare pity me. I wouldn’t. Not for that.
Caroline added, “I can give you the name of a guy who’d gladly rid you of it.”
“I’d rather make a necklace with your teeth.”
Caroline let out a short laugh, and Rose planted an agonizingly harsh glare on her, unflinching. And then Caroline’s mouth dropped. “Are you serious?”
“You’re right,” Rose said, “Connor has pretti
er teeth. What’d those cost to whiten? A thousand dollars?”
“Not nearly that much.”
“Would you give them to me?”
She liked to banter this way. And I gladly played into it. “Not without a price.”
Caroline’s head whipped between us.
“No,” Rose said. “I want them just because.”
“That’s not how the world works.”
Caroline interjected, “She wouldn’t know any differently. She’s used to being handed things.” She sloshed her Diet Fizz can to demonstrate just where all of Rose’s wealth came from.
Rose inhaled a sharp breath.
Her just because speech was not out of a spoiled, bitchy heart. She was leading me somewhere—a place that she had trouble finding on her own. So I ignored Caroline and prodded. “What kind of man would give you his teeth for free?”
Rose stared at me with surprise, as though I cracked some code of hers. It lit my heart on fire. “The kind who loves me.”
“You’d put a guy through that big of a test?”
She shrugged. “Why not?”
“Because it’s impossible to reach.”
“Then so be it.”
I believed she wanted to be alone forever. I believed she was afraid to be loved for real.
Caroline muttered so only I can hear, “She’s such a bitch.” She waited for me to confirm the fact. It was hard to deny Rose Calloway’s bitchiness, but she was endearing in ways that Caroline was not. Most men would agree with me, and I wouldn’t be able to explain to Caroline why guys found her annoying but they were insanely, deeply, anatomically attracted to Rose.
And then Caroline spilt her soda all over Rose’s dress.
The tour hadn’t even begun. Her interview was still slated that afternoon. Rose’s automatic response was to solve the crisis, not curse out Caroline. Without saying a word, she walked quickly in her heels to the bathroom.
Caroline grabbed my wrist before I followed Rose. “I’ll be here,” she told me.
“I know.” Caroline was the type of girl I was destined for. She was my future. But I was not done fighting for another one. A future that would turn my rudimentary life into something more exciting.
I wanted the fucking challenge.
The easy path was always the most boring.
And I would be damned to miss this chance.
I sprinted down the hall and then slowed to a brisk walk as I reached the girls’ bathroom. I pushed open the door, and Rose stood by the sink, scrubbing the stain with wet paper towels, her eyes bloodshot with anger and anxiety.
When she saw me enter, she directed all of her pent-up frustration at my incoming body. “This is the girls’ bathroom, Richard.” She tried to fling a paper towel at me but it fluttered to the ground in defeat.
“I’m aware.”
“Then what are you doing here?” She threw her hands up. “You know what, you should be happy. I’m not going to be accepted into the Honor’s Program. You’ll be able to gloat about this win too.”
I came to her side and tossed the sodden towels in the nearby trash. And then I began to shrug off my red blazer.
“What are you doing?”
“This is what help looks like.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to be indebted to you.” She pointed her finger at me and stepped back. “I know how you work. I get it. You do things for students and they have to pay you back in some sick way.” Opportunity cost. Benefits. Deals. They were the foundation of my life.
“I’m not prostituting people.” I hold out the blazer to her. “There’s not a string attached to this. I’m not expecting anything in return. Take it.”
She just kept shaking her head at me.
My hand fell. “What?”
“Why do you act like that around her?”
I feigned confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Like that!” She growled in annoyance, which almost made me smile. “Caroline irritates you too, and yet, you stand there and talk with her like she’s a long lost friend.”
“I don’t,” I denied.
She set her hands on her hips and mimicked me. “You ride well, Caroline. I saw you at the equestrian event last week. How’s your mother? What the hell is that?”
“I was being kind. If you’re not familiar with the sentiment, I’d be glad to show you.”
She growled again.
I smiled.
“You’re different around certain people,” she told me. “I’ve known you long enough from academic conferences to see it. You act one way with them and another with me. How do I know who the real Connor Cobalt is?”
You never will. “I’m as real with you as I can be.”
“That’s complete bullshit,” she cursed.
“I can’t be you,” I told her. “You leave a trail of bodies with your glares. People are afraid to approach you, Rose. That’s a problem.”
“At least I know who I am.”
We had somehow drawn towards each other. I towered over her, taller than most men and built like an athlete. I never hunched. Never shied. I wore my height with pride.
She raised her chin to combat me. I pushed her to be the best that she could be.
“I know exactly who I am,” I said with every ounce of confidence I possessed. “What unsettles you, Rose, is that you have no idea what kind of guy that is.”
Her eyes pierced me. “Sure I do. You’re fake.”
“I’m real when I need to be,” I reminded her. “If people stare at me and see my problems, then I’m useless to them. So I give them exactly what they want. I am whomever or whatever they need.” I held out my blazer. “And you need a fucking jacket.”
She reluctantly took the blazer but hesitated again. “I can’t be you,” she said. “I can’t internalize all of my feelings. I don’t understand how you can do that.”
“Practice,” I said.
She slipped her arms through the blazer, the fabric dwarfing her slender body, but it covered the stain. And that was what mattered. She opened her purse and pulled out a sewing kit. “Help me with the sleeves.” She held out one arm.
I rolled the fabric up to her wrist while she pinned the body to fit her frame. She started her own fashion line at fifteen, so I wasn’t surprised she carried around a needle and thread. She never talked much about Calloway Couture with anyone. But I figured the company meant the world to her since she worked to keep it afloat for years.
“I need your other arm,” I told her.
She gave it to me, but she finally stiffened at my closeness. Our eyes met for an extended moment. There was so much between us that I wasn’t ready to uncover right then. I wasn’t prepared for the deep conversations that she would force me to have.
Rose Calloway couldn’t stand me because of what I was—a guy who wanted to reach the top. The irony was that she wanted the same thing. She just wasn’t willing to do what I was to get there.
She took a deep breath. “Why do I always feel like I’m fighting a brick wall when I talk to you?” And then she stepped back and finished sewing.
I didn’t have anything real to say. I couldn’t form the words. I spent years building barriers and defenses. I could take care of a woman better than any other guy could. But my mother never taught me how to love. She taught me about stocks and history and different languages. She made me intelligent.
She made me logical and factual.
I knew sex. I knew affection. But love? That was an illogical concept, something as fictional as the Bible, Katarina Cobalt would say. When I was a child, I thought love belonged in fantasy with witches and monsters. It couldn’t exist in real life, and if it did, it was just like religion—only there to make people feel good.
Love.
That was fake to me.
And I nearly rolled my eyes. There you go, Connor. That’s something fucking real. That’s something from the heart.
“Rose,” I began. And she turned to look at me. And her gaz
e was like the depths of hell. Ice cold. Bitter. Tumultuous and pained. I wanted to bear it all. But I couldn’t show her all the cards I held to do so. I couldn’t let her in. I’d lose the game first. And it had only just begun. “You’re going to do great.”
And that was it.
She was gone.
Through a friend of a friend, I learned that Rose Calloway was accepted to the Honor’s Program. I learned that she denied the request to attend Penn. For whatever reason, she chose Princeton, our rival college.
Six months later, I started to date Caroline Haverford. Not long after that, she became my girlfriend.
It was a life that I saw coming.
It was one that I was prepared for.
There was nothing spontaneous or alluring about it.
At nineteen, everything was just practical.
5 Years Later
[ 1 ]
ROSE CALLOWAY
You know the stories where the strong, brawny man struts into a room with his head high, his chest puffed, and his stocky shoulders pulled back—he’s the king of the jungle, the big man on campus, the one who quivers girls’ knees. He carries an air of unwarranted superiority for the pure fact that he has a dick, and he knows it. He expects the girl to go tongue-tied and agree to his every demand.
Well, I am living that story right now.
The man settles into a seat at the head of the conference table (instead of the chair nearest me) and just stares in my direction.
Maybe he thinks I’m going to be that stupefied girl. That I will cower beneath his deep grey eyes and his combed dishwater blond hair. He’s twenty-eight, stained with Hollywood elitism and self-righteousness. When I first talked to him, he name dropped actors and producers and directors, waiting for me to go slack-jawed and dopey. “I know so-and-so. I did a project with what’s-his-face.”
My boyfriend had to grab the phone out of my hand before I cursed at the Hollywood exec for irritating the shit out of me. There are certain people that just crawl underneath my skin, and I have a nasty habit of speaking my mind, even if my thoughts aren’t the kindest ones.
He finally speaks. “Do you have the contracts?” His chair screeches as he leans back.
Addicted for Now (Addicted Series 2) Page 47