Fuel the Fire

by Krista Ritchie

  “It’s hard to be sympathetic when you left to knit a sweater and decided to tell no one your plans. That’s fine, you know, none of us were concerned about either of you. No one fucking cared…”

  I feel my lips pull downward. Rose and I are always diligent about keeping tabs on everyone, and never did it cross my mind that they’d be upset if we snuck out. I thought they’d shrug it off, laugh and joke. When we returned to her parent’s house, Lily rushed to Rose and hugged her tightly while Rose stood stiffly in shock.

  They all thought we’d been in a car accident.

  “We’ve already explained this,” Rose says. “When we left, we thought we’d be gone for five minutes, but each store was closed and I needed lace for Jane’s dress, not yarn. I didn’t want to go out today with the Black Friday crowds.”

  “Wait,” Ryke says, more to me than anyone else. He drops Daisy carefully on her feet, and his voice finally captures Rose and Lo’s attention. “You’re fucking telling me that you two snuck out and had a quickie in a parking lot last night?”

  “Relatively speaking,” I say.

  Ryke’s nose flares. “I called six fucking hospitals, and you two were getting off?” Daisy wraps her arm around his waist in a comforting hug.

  Lo gapes. “Jesus Christ, there’s a photo of Connor getting off too?”

  “No,” Rose snaps.

  “This has really traveled beyond the point,” I announce.

  I hear Ryke mutter, “Unbelievable.” Normally I’d have another response for him, but since this is a much different scenario, with Rose and me at the center, I let it go.

  Lo lifts Moffy to his ear, his son now concentrated on him. The pale-skinned, dark-haired boy touches Lo’s jaw and actually presses his lips to his father’s cheek. Lo nods in mock realization. “That’s right, little man. There are liars amongst us.”

  I find it more amusing than worrisome. For now, at least. Jane murmurs something in Rose’s arms, the straw hat back on her head, covering thin, wispy brown strands.

  “She said you’re wrong and I’m right,” Rose retorts.

  I rub my lips, trying to hide my grin.

  “Just say the words, Rose,” Lo tells her. “You. Left. To. Get. Off.”

  I wait for Rose to accept this partial truth as the whole story, but it’s not the truth she’d usually tell. We did it for you, is the one that’s sitting on the tip of her tongue. But some things have to be kept secret. For the betterment of Lily and Lo and the simplicity of this entire process. Rose and I don’t want four other voices in this ordeal. It’s easier constructing plans without them.

  Rose inhales sharply, raises her chin again, and says, “Fine. I left to get off. Do you feel better, Loren?”

  “Yeah.” His amber eyes drift to me now. “If you needed a private location to go down on your wife, I could’ve directed you to the Calloway girls’ clubhouse. Backyard. Perfect place to fuck.”

  I can’t hide my escalating grin. “Then why haven’t you ever invited me, darling?”

  “My door is always open.” The innuendo is clear.

  I tilt my head in thought. There was a time where I truly believed Lo wouldn’t understand me, maybe even act different towards me if I told him about my experiences with men. I have a natural, undeniable fear that the relationships I’ve cultivated will somehow morph into tangled, uncertain strands, made up of cold-shoulders and cautious glances from them to me. All because of past hookups and short-lived flings that have no basis on what I do today, now, with my wife and my friends and my child.

  I told Loren the truth, not long ago. He’s the second person in my life to ever know.

  He barely flinched. I doubt he knows this, but how he acts towards me now—like nothing has changed, like our lighthearted jabs have the same exact connotation as I want them to—has made me revere him and respect him even more.

  “I’ll be sure to knock,” I tell Lo.

  “I like my bell rung, love.”

  “Even better.”

  Lily raises her hand. “I agree with Lo. The clubhouse is a good alternative.” She nods repeatedly.

  “Me too,” Daisy pipes in from the bottom of the staircase.

  Lily smiles wider, knowing someone else has been in there before. “When did you…with you?” She motions between Ryke and Daisy.

  Ryke actually tries to lighten his features for Lily, his scowl almost dissipating. It doesn’t work well. “Who else would it fucking be with?”

  “I can name a few bastards,” Lo says, disgruntled at the thought of Daisy’s past boyfriends. But his use of “bastard” causes everyone to look at him, me included. “Not me.” He cringes. “What is fucking wrong with you people?”

  “So we’re talking about metaphorical bastards then,” I say easily.

  Ryke pinches his eyes. “I fucking hate all of you—except you.” He rests a hand on Daisy’s head. She leans into him again.

  Lo descends the stairs to reach Lily. He says to his brother, “You’re just pissy because I brought up Daisy’s ex-boyfriends.”

  Daisy is mouthing something to Lily and then to Rose. The three of us, the guys, are ignoring them.

  I chime in, “And if you rewind a little, Ryke, you’re the one who asked for the ‘other people’ she possibly could’ve slept with. So really, you should be hating yourself right now, but I don’t advise that approach.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure I fucking hate you, Cobalt.” I know it’s not true by his relaxed tone.

  Rose taps her foot. “So we’re done here then?”

  Lily takes Moffy from Lo, the baby clinging onto her arm. “I think we are,” Lily says.

  I ascend the staircase, towards Rose.

  “Seriously though,” Lo adds. I can feel his gaze on my back. “Next time you both disappear, even to make out—which must be like an annual event for you two—just…let us know where you’re going, okay?”

  I’m not used to that speech being directed at me. Ryke usually gives it to Lo: be careful, tell us where you’re going, don’t run off to fuck without saying something.

  I understand their concern. We managed to leave the Calloway’s gated neighborhood without being followed by paparazzi, which is rare. They could’ve tailed us. We could’ve wrecked. Totaled the car. Died.

  Anything’s possible, but Rose and I haven’t even been able to agree on who should be Jane’s godparents if something happens to us.

  “We’ll text next time we’re running late,” I assure him. Lo nods in thanks, and when I reach Rose, her eyes drill holes in me.

  “Don’t say it,” she whispers. Jane tugs on Rose’s dried hair and puts a strand in her mouth. Rose will wash her hair again, no matter what now, so she lets Jane play.

  I lower my voice. “I wasn’t even thinking it. You didn’t fail.” At lying to Lo. I can’t add the rest aloud. “But there’s always room for improvement, unless you’re me.”

  She rolls her eyes and whispers back, almost in a growl, “I’m sorry, I didn’t major in deceit in prep school.”

  I edge closer to her, Jane between us. “Too bad you weren’t a boy. You could’ve attended Faust and then I could’ve tutored you.”

  Her yellow-green eyes flit up and down my body. “And how many pupils would there’ve been?”

  “Seulement vous,” I whisper. Only you.

  I never took anyone under my wing at Faust. Had it not been an all-boys boarding school or had she really been a man in order to attend, I would’ve taken her, in every way. Even so, I’m glad this was the order of events. I’m glad we had years of being rivals before we became something more. I wouldn’t change anything. I adore every piece of my life, how I’ve lived it, and the only regret I have is not allowing myself to love Rose sooner. Or maybe just not believing I did.

  I stroke the back of Rose’s neck with my thumb, and she begins to relax more. Jane’s head lolls as she dozes off in her mother’s arms.

  When we participated in the reality show, Rose asked me to play her
game. We were supposed to be us, no performing. Even when the producers wanted us to—even when they edited us how they saw fit—we were always supposed to be ourselves.

  Now I’m asking Rose to play my game.

  To find the loopholes, to take the manipulative, deceitful roads, to do anything to achieve a goal. I’m asking her to lie, bend sideways and fit into cramped boxes. To change to fit someone else’s needs.

  It’s not easy for someone who follows rules, for someone with a strong, fiery personality. I hate asking this of her, but I need Rose on my side.

  I can’t do this alone.

  “Cobalt,” Ryke calls.

  I turn my head, and from the bottom of the staircase, Ryke stares at me with knotted brows, his jaw hard. Daisy is turned into his chest, her back to us. So he’s alone in his thoughts.

  Here is a simple fact.

  Ryke can’t act any other way than how he is.

  He’s the opposite of me. I can change. So I’m something less, something easier to swallow. Ryke gives himself to you like a bottle of sand or a bag of shrapnel. Chew and swallow, he says. I’ll take care of you if you bleed.

  The point is that Ryke can’t help Rose and me. He’d make it so fucking obvious that we’re staging events for the press. He’d basically wear I’m in bed with the media on his forehead.

  I need people on my team that will make this easier. Not harder.

  He’s a shackle, a weight, a cost that I can do without.

  So while he stands there, glaring at me like I’m lying, I worry that he’s going to ruin something he’d support. He’d do anything for his brother. But he can’t do this. It’s not in his ability. Sorry, Ryke.

  I’m benching you.

  “Yes?” I say, pulling my face with confusion, even when I feel none.

  He hesitates, frowning. “Never mind…” He shakes his head and whispers in Daisy’s ear. She nods, and they leave the living room and disappear into the kitchen.

  Rose watches them exit and says quietly, “He’s too smart.”

  Between the media’s involvement with Jane and Moffy, our sex tapes, and Ryke, he’s the least of my worries. “Just remember, he’s not smarter than us.”

  No one is.

  [ 5 ]

  ROSE COBALT

  “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” I realize, in slight horror. I stand firmly in the master bathroom, dressed only in one of Connor’s white button-downs and my white panties. I considered doing this stupid, stupid thing in our smaller bathroom upstairs, but I imagined the mess, the smell, and I decided against it. The master has been vacant since Connor and I changed rooms, opting for the second floor to be closer to Jane’s nursery and more integrated in the house’s happenings.

  “You haven’t done anything yet,” Connor says, casually flipping through the tiny packet of directions. “And it’s a far cry from stupid.”

  I pace back and forth in front of the his-and-hers marble sinks, my hands unintentionally stroking my long brown hair. Bleach, developer, and toner sit next to the faucet, chemicals that I’ve never contemplated using in my hair, not once. Not even when my mother prodded me for highlights when they were “popular among girls my age” during the early 2000s.

  Connor suddenly tosses the directions on the counter.

  I freeze. “You read those for two seconds. I swear to God, if you skimmed, I will dropkick you in shark-infested waters.”

  “I think you’d fair better if you swore to me and not the air.” He unscrews the top off the powdered bleach, his lips beginning to rise.

  I hate that smile. But I love that smile. I growl, fed-up with my brain’s indecision about a man I love to hate. I hesitate to steal the bleach from him, but he’s already mixing the powder with the developer in a plastic bowl.

  Instead, I reach out for the instructions, but Connor beats me, snatching the tiny packet and pocketing them in his navy-blue gym pants, shirtless. I refuse to even acknowledge the six—no eight abs in front of me that are both desirable and detestable. It’s not fair that someone as intelligent as Connor Cobalt is also this fit. It’s all purposeful. He works hard to achieve his appearance, to be as put-together outside as he is inside.

  “I read the directions,” he says, holding my gaze. “They’re straightforward. They’re simple, Rose. There’s absolutely no way I can do this incorrectly.”

  I trust him.

  More than anyone in this world, I trust Connor. But… “You’re not a hairdresser, Richard. Unless I missed the part where Faust taught all the boys how to perm each other.” This would be less stressful if I could march into a salon and have a professional treat my hair with delicate, experienced hands. Instead I had to condition my hair for the past three days, in fear that this home-remedy would damage hair that I’ve spent years nurturing like a fucking toddler.

  Connor reads my boiling, anxious expression. “How many times have you gone to the salon without paparazzi waiting outside?”

  Never. I glare. “I could’ve had a stylist come to the house.”

  “And how many times has a stylist tipped off the media?”

  Four times. They tipped off my wardrobe for a Charity event to Style Now…and described my sock bun. One of the four also took pictures without my knowledge. I can’t trust just anyone, and I’ve yet to find a stylist honorable enough to bring into our current situation with Celebrity Crush.

  When so many people morph into paparazzi with their own cellphones, capturing an exclusive photo is incredibly hard. It’s why Andrea covets them. It’s why I have to swallow my fear and do this the old-fashioned, hazardous way—all to ensure that Walter Aimes will snap his photo and Celebrity Crush will have a beautiful headline about my ugly hair color.

  Jane and Moffy are worth more than your hair, I keep repeating the mantra. I accept the situation—that this is about to happen—as soon as he puts on plastic gloves.

  “Don’t get it on my hands or skin,” I remind him, gripping the edge of the counter and facing the sink. The toxic smell is already curdling my stomach, knowing it’ll be in my hair and on my scalp soon. It’s why I’ve tasked him with the laborious part of this process.

  He steps behind me, much taller since I’m without heels. “I’m well aware of your preferences,” he says, plastic bowl in hand. “My name is at the top of it beside the number one.”

  I watch him through the mirror, my eyes like pools of fire. “You wish.”

  “I don’t wish things that are already true,” he says with a bigger grin. I suppose my retort was weak in comparison, falling into his conceited aura too easily. I blame the bleach and his closeness, his chest almost right up against my back.

  One more step and I’ll feel his pelvis against me. His toned arms always seem larger and more sculpted without a shirt: perfect with a suit on, not too bulky, and perfect with a suit off, not too lean. There is too much perfect behind me—it’s infuriating.

  “Take a step back,” I command.

  He tilts his head, just slightly and raises a brow. “Excuse me?”

  “One. Step,” I force.

  “No,” he says definitively, denying me this.

  “I can’t think clearly when you’re this close,” I admit. I end up stepping towards the sink counter, my legs and waist pressed up against it.

  “You don’t have to think at all right now. Close your eyes.”

  I stubbornly keep my eyes open, glaring in the mirror at him. Off my punctured stare, his desire swims in his deep blues, sexual longing that he often shows me. Without breaking my gaze, he bites off one of his gloves and then slaps my ass. The breath knocks out of me, a pleasured shudder vibrating my stiff limbs. He slips his hand beneath my panties, his large palm soothing the sting.

  This time, I willingly close my eyes, letting him take control of me. Some of my anxieties start to dissipate, even as he applies the cold bleach mixture to sections of my hair. He keeps his other hand beneath the button-down I wear and beneath my panties. I like how he clutch
es my ass, but still, I white-knuckle the counter’s edge.

  “How does it look?” I ask.

  “Like it’s not finished,” he says. “Count backwards from two hundred and maybe it’ll be done by then.” I feel the smirk in his voice.

  “I dream of murdering your smile,” I say.

  “Your dream clearly hasn’t come true.”

  I ignore that annoying comment. “I’d cut it to pieces and sell it to the highest bidder.”

  “So you plan to profit off my body?” He steps forward, so close that his erection melds against me. Oh God…

  “You better be concentrating on my hair and not my ass,” I say, too nervous to look at the progress he’s made.

  “I’m proficient at multi-tasking,” he reminds me. “It’s relatively easy for me to concentrate on all of you at once.”

  I’d say that he’s placating me, but I’m certain he’s skilled enough to accomplish both. “What part of me would you murder?” My cold tone of voice challenges him to answer.

  “I wouldn’t murder any part of you,” he says, “and I definitely wouldn’t sell those parts either.” He surprises me. I almost lose my balance, but his hand ascends from my ass to my bare hip, seizing my waist that’s grown just slightly since I had Jane, more shape than I once had.

  “Not even my tongue?” I have to annoy him. I annoy myself three times out of six during the day.

  “You want me to sell your tongue to another man?” he asks. “So they can have this conversation before me?”

  No. I don’t want that. I highly doubt another man would entertain these bizarre, would you fall on a sword and bathe in cow’s milk, types of questions that I always throw at Connor. And he always grins, analyzes them, and slings them right back at me.

  I feel a glop of cold at my neck, and I stiffen—

  “You’re fine,” he assures me quickly. “It’s not on your skin.”

  I swallow hard and inhale sharply. More confidence seeps into me, as he holds me tighter around the waist.

  “Would you rather make love on goat’s blood or cut off my tongue?” I say the words like I’m one second from wielding a knife and enacting these hypotheticals.