Fuel the Fire

by Krista Ritchie

  The purple shadows beneath Frederick’s eyes suggest lack of sleep, and the textbooks and file folders towered on his desk suggest the source.

  “Stop analyzing me, Connor. I’m not the patient. I’m your therapist.” He sips his coffee.

  On the leather cushion next to me, Jane plays with a children’s book, textures and audio buttons keeping her fixated.

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t present yourself like you’ve had two hours of sleep, Rick,” I advise. I distinguish the book titles from here, most about PTSD and depression. “Her case is that difficult for you?”

  “It’s complicated—” He catches himself, stopping short. “We’re not discussing Daisy.”

  He hasn’t cracked yet, but his exhaustion gives me an advantage this afternoon.

  “What’s new with you?” he asks, resting his ankle on his thigh and leans back.

  I usually tell Frederick everything. He’s ethically obligated to keep my secrets, but saying Scott’s name aloud creates permanence that’s hard to consume without a grimace. He’s across the street from my wife and daughter and four other people that belong in the epicenter of my world.

  Frederick fills the brief silence. “Jonathan Hale called me again today. He still wants a list of who’ve you been intimate with, and he wants my notes and professional opinion on what you are.”

  I tilt my head with a fragment of irritation. “What I am?” My lips rise. “The greatest mind the universe will never understand, smarter than ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the world’s population, unabashedly arrogant and grossly tired of Jonathan’s punitive measures to undermine me.” I nod to Frederick. “That’s what I am.”

  “You may not think your sexuality is important,” Frederick tells me, gathering that fact from all that I’ve said, “but he does, people do, and it’s something you have to accept.”

  “I accept it,” I say calmly, tugging down Jane’s dress that bunches at her waist.

  “Bullshit,” he calls me out. “You don’t talk like you just did without feeling passionate about something, Connor.”

  “What should I do then in your professional opinion? Should I go to Jonathan and have a one-on-one conversation, slitting my heart open to a man that I find manipulative in his own right? You think he’ll revere me, Rick? You think he’ll understand me?”

  “You’ve already made up your mind,” he says, listening to the tone of my voice. “And I wouldn’t suggest going to Jonathan for anything. Of what you’ve told me, it sounds like he’d use the information against you. I just don’t understand why he’s so hell-bent on exposing your past relationships.”

  I do. “He’s afraid that I have emotional control over his son, something that he used to have. He’s just threatened by my friendship with Loren, and now that his son is running his company, he’s worried I’ll have more sway with Hale Co. than he will.” And Jonathan wants more evidence to blackmail me with, so I’ll stop being a force in Loren’s life.

  Even if I’m a positive force.

  But I hold more cards than Jonathan, so whatever blackmail he wants to throw my way, it’s a useless ploy. Jonathan Hale may have money but he is beneath me, a human invertebrate. He doesn’t even control Hale Co. anymore, which makes him further and further out of my league.

  I’m too connected to the people he cares about—Loren Hale and Greg Calloway—for him to make a move against me. It’s suicide. And Jonathan Hale is all about self-preservation.

  Frederick takes another sip of coffee. “So you were quiet when I asked you before, so I’m going to ask you again. What’s new? And it has to be easier to talk about than this.”

  I roll up the sleeves of my white button-down, heat blowing through a vent above my head. I still try to construct that five-letter name aloud.

  Frederick sits up, resting his forearms on his thighs as he cups his mug. He watches Jane attempt to flip a page in her book, but the thick page slips from her weak clutch. She turns her head and looks to me for help. I lean forward and flip the page for her. She mumbles.

  “You’re welcome,” I say with a growing smile.

  She lets out a high-pitched giggle and returns to her book.

  “She’s advanced for her age,” Frederick notes.

  “Marginally. She’s probably a month ahead, but Lo’s son tries to keep up with her. I think he may walk first.” I’ve been observing their milestones—speech, dexterity, cognizance, mobility—and when Jane first rolled onto her stomach, along the living room rug, Moffy watched and followed suit. I’ve seen him attempt to stand, as she does. He has more power in his movements, and he’s one month younger.

  I’m proud of that baby, and he’s not even mine.

  “Did something happen with the press?” Frederick asks. When he begins blindly guessing, he shows his cards. He’s nervous for me, drawing conclusions around the worst possibilities since I won’t talk.

  “Scott Van Wright moved in across the street.” I detach myself from these words and present him the facts, GBA’s involvement and pressure to renew the reality show.

  When I finish, Frederick sits back like I’ve slammed him hard. He’s quiet for a full minute, processing everything.

  “And?” I ask, needing his guidance. He’s nearly as smart as me, and I wouldn’t come here weekly if I didn’t need reminders of things sitting at the back of my brain, the emotions that I stuff in drawers and the facts I set aside.

  “I think you know what you feel,” he says.

  I’m incredibly numb. “I feel nothing right now.”

  “You’re a narcissist,” Frederick reminds me. “It’s hard for you to believe you failed, in any way, and so you make yourself believe you succeeded.”

  “I did succeed,” I say. “My company—”

  “How is Rose?” Frederick asks.

  I shut down again, my body unbending. I thought Rose could handle the sex tapes if we benefited from them, but throughout the years, I’ve seen how the mere mention of them weakens her resolve. I forgot that she’s not like me. “What I want doesn’t go without consequence. I couldn’t dissolve the sex tapes so I profited off of them in another way.”

  “And so did Scott,” Frederick says. “He’s the only person that has ever duped you in your entire life, Connor, and now he’s back.”

  “I’m rethinking these meetings, Rick. I don’t pay you to tell me things I already know.”

  “You pay me to remind you that you’re not inhuman and that you have feelings.”

  I rub my lips and look at Jane for a moment, and she presses a button beside a picture of a cow. Mooo! She lifts the book to her ear at the noise and it falls from her clutch, thudding to the cushion. Still, she smiles.

  I want her innocence intact as long as it should be. The thought of Scott even nearing her boils my blood, and the thought of anyone threatening her wellbeing—it’s inconceivable.

  “I can’t shout. I can’t scream,” I tell Frederick. “I can’t beat at my chest and expect Scott to vanish.”

  Rose nearly lost her voice after yelling at Scott that night. She also spent an hour scrubbing the soles of her feet in the bathroom—from walking barefoot on the road. She only stopped when I drew a bath for her and poured her a glass of wine.

  I have to play this smart.

  I run my finger over a scratch on the leather armrest. “I love nearly every game I play, even the recent ones with Rose.” The Celebrity Crush articles have their allure, especially when we can control the setting and the place and time. “But Scott is like swatting at a mosquito. He’s an annoyance, brainless but unyielding, and I receive no satisfaction from this game—I hate every fucking part of it.”

  “You could pay him more than GBA is willing to give him—”

  “No,” I cut him off. “That’s not even an option. Whatever I do, there will be no benefit for Scott. When I win, I’m not letting him win too.”

  I imagine Jane, five-years-old and meeting Scott Van Wright as he swings back around, collecting mo
re money, blackmailing us for more and more.

  “I have to detach him from my family.”

  “Just take it slowly,” Frederick advises, scrutinizing my features the way I did to him earlier. “You’re a new father, the head of a giant corporation, not to mention dealing with Jonathan Hale, now Scott, and you’re already in bed with the media.”

  “First-world problems,” I quip.

  He hops over that. “How is your relationship with the media going for Jane’s sake, by the way?”

  “It’s still too early to tell.” I think back at how no one asked me about Jane when I entered this building. “But when there are other relevant stories, the cameras usually stay on me. When we do nothing during the week, they fixate on the children, grappling for something.”

  “It’s risky,” Frederick says.

  My lips rise. “Everything is a risk.”

  “So you’re going to poke the beast?” His voice is even-tempered which lets me believe that he thinks it’s a decent idea, otherwise he’d be chastising me like, are you sure about this, Connor?

  Irritation still grips my voice. “It’s better to poke the beast and let it eat me than wait for it to eat my child.”

  Off my annoyance, he switches topics. “Are you sleeping well?”

  I glance at the textbooks on his desk again. “Five hours a night, the usual.” I can run off that easily. “How many hours does Daisy sleep?”

  “About the same.” His face hardens when he realizes his slip. “No.” He points a finger at me and rises from his seat, heading to the desk.

  “I won’t tell anyone what you tell me.”

  He ignores me, cleaning the file folders off his desk and stacking them in black metal drawers.

  “I could help you,” I offer. “She’s a complex case, and it might be in her benefit to have two minds on the project instead of one.”

  Frederick stiffens.

  I’m getting somewhere. “It’s not uncommon for colleagues to discuss a patient’s case.”

  “You’re not my colleague,” Frederick retorts.

  “Only because I find this whole field boring, and to be honest, I’m overqualified for your job.” And then I add, “I could’ve withheld what happened with Scott and offered you a deal, to trade that for information about Daisy, but I did the noble thing. And right now, you’re telling me the noble thing has no rewards.” Then maybe I should revert to immoral tactics.

  Frederick hesitates for a second before he concedes. “I want to put her on medication…but I can’t pick the right one if I’m not absolutely positive of all her symptoms and what they’re pointing me to. She’s been given pills that only treat a portion of what’s wrong with her, and they exacerbate her other issues…” He rests both hands on his desk and shakes his head. “I can’t tell, without absolute certainty, if she’s manic depressive or not.” He can’t discern whether her highs are really highs.

  “Being around her for years, I can tell you that her bursts of energy are fronts. It’s not real, Frederick. It’s a façade. She’s not bipolar.”

  Frederick isn’t so sure.

  I realize that he’s not far into her case yet. He’s stuck at the beginning. I rise, lifting Jane in my arms. “Don’t watch her bounce around on television,” I advise. “Don’t look at her smiling in magazines. Daisy would rather trick herself into believing she’s okay than ruin the rest of our time worrying that she’s not.”

  “And how do you know this?” he asks while I head to the door.

  “I’ve mastered the art of hiding emotions.” She’s good, but she’s not better than me.

  [ 13 ]

  CONNOR COBALT

  A marble chess set rests on our bed between us. Charcoal and ivory kings, queens, rooks, bishops, knights, and pawns line each side in correct order, the pieces like battlements and soldiers in combat.

  Playing with Rose always seems like warfare. We never bring out board games to pass time. We play with stakes, so the loss feels like a loss and the win feels like a win. We play to achieve something greater.

  Tonight is no different. If our pieces are captured, we have to remove an article of clothing or tell a truth.

  I plan to have her naked.

  She plans to have me stripped bare in other ways.

  Three pawns removed, and I’m shirtless and she’s spilled two useless truths about middle school dances. Obviously, neither of us is obtaining what we desire.

  I press my fingers to my lips, watching her shift on the bed. She knots the strap of her black silk robe tighter around her waist, hiding white lace lingerie that she only wears when she wants to tease me.

  It’s working.

  I imagine the lacy, see-through material, her nipples partially visible, her hips fuller, ass larger, accentuating her curves and her femininity. If I didn’t like games this much, I’d have her on her back by now.

  The crystal chandelier rattles above us, the light dimming on its own. This isn’t the first time it’s happened.

  She looks up, the crystals clinking together. “Why does he have to fuck my little sister on the roof?”

  “The same reason why you prefer my hands around your throat when I fuck you and the same reason why I enjoy it.” I pause. “And dogs need to be let outside from time to time.”

  She lifts the robe higher near her collar before returning to the chess set, further hiding her bare skin.

  “New rules,” I suddenly say.

  Her fiery yellow-green eyes flit to me, as if I have no power to change what’s already been established. Think again, Rose.

  “You take one of my pieces,” I say, “and I tell you a truth.”

  Her lips purse, but her shoulders loosen. “Let me guess, if you take one of mine, I have to automatically remove an article of clothing. No choice at all.”

  I smile as her eyes heat. “I won’t have a choice either,” I remind her. “This way, we both get what we want. You naked. Me exposed. We’re both winners.”

  She lets out a short, dry laugh. “There’s only ever one winner, Connor.”

  “Not if you’re playing on a team.”

  “Chess isn’t a team game,” she says under her breath, already softening to the idea. Her eyes flit to my abs and the definition in my biceps. “What if I want you naked?” A tense silence coils my muscles, and her eyes flit up to me with deadly power, poisonous and beautiful all at once.

  “I’ll be happy to do that without a game.”

  Her shoulders lock, and she rolls her eyes at the sight of my wide grin.

  “Darling,” I add. “We’re both bored playing this. Either we change up the rules or I’m finding a new game. And I’m not sure you’ll like it.” I want to wind her silk strap around my fist and yank off her robe. Patience. I do have patience. More than most men. It’s what makes me better than them.

  Her cheeks heat. “Fine.” She steals a glance at the baby monitor on the nightstand. “I need to check on Jane in a little anyway. We can do this quick.”

  Quick isn’t a word I like when it comes to my wife. Every moment with Rose, I would extend for infinite measures of time. Even the hostile, torrid moments where she tries to light the world, and me, on fire. I love them all.

  Since she’s already agreed to the new rules, I don’t argue with her about the speed of the game. I return my attention to the chessboard, her knees perilously close to the ivory pieces as she splays her legs to the side. I sit across from Rose with my elbow resting on one bent knee, fingers to my jaw in contemplation.

  I’ve strategized ten moves ahead, but I deduce—based on the other times we’ve played—that she’s five ahead of me. We’re both adept at chess, but neither of us ever competed. Grandmaster is one title I never sought or wanted.

  Most of my skills arise from my boarding school. I spent almost half my life at Faust, my mother sending me there for third grade to twelfth. I was seven when I unpacked my suitcase and my mom patted my shoulder in goodbye.

  I’ll see you when
you need me, she said. But if you’re the boy I know you to be, then you won’t need me at all. She didn’t want me to be attached to her, and so I never was.

  That boarding school became my mother and my father. I refer to Faust more than I refer to Katarina, more than I ever speak of my absent father. The institution taught me how to survive. It gave me more knowledge, but a place can’t hug you or love you.

  And I remember most days at Faust like vivid dreams set in gray-scale. It only bled in color when I met Rose for the very first time.

  Chess was common. About fifteen of us would congregate in an upperclassman’s room, cigarettes lit and the windows cracked in ten-below winters. We’d begin a clandestine tournament, drinking shots for every piece captured, doubled if someone checked. Moves had to be made in under ten seconds or you’d drink again.

  We looked like drunken, privileged geniuses—high off being smart enough to play a game most don’t understand. And we were bored enough to spin it into something more exhilarating, juvenile and fun.

  Parts of me will never change.

  I slide my rook towards her side. She cages her excitement behind suspicion, staring at my vulnerable pawn. I press my fingers to my jaw again. “At Faust, we had a ten-second rule when we played chess,” I tell her.

  “That must be where the rumor comes from.” Her eyes still pin to the charcoal pawn.

  She’s baiting me with her words, and I feed into it. “What rumor?”

  “The one about Faust boys only lasting ten-seconds in bed.” She moves her bishop, seizing my sacrificial pawn.

  My brows rise, just slightly. “And I’ve been able to disprove that rumor numerous times with you.”

  She raises her hand to silence me. “This is not the time for you to boast about your sexual talents.”

  My lips curve upward at that particular word: talents.

  She points at me and suddenly kneels for height advantage while I stay in the same relaxed position. “Don’t even think it.”

  “Talent?” I say aloud.

  She growls beneath her breath. “I didn’t compliment you.”