He climbs off the bed.
Motherfucker.
I’m close to spitting out the panties and following suit. As soon as I sit up, Connor reaches over and presses a hand on my collar, pushing my back flat against the mattress.
“Stay here,” he commands. He kicks the marble chessboard towards the chair, the pieces rolling onto the hardwood and off the rug. Scattered. In disarray. My heart palpitates, a dirty chill snaking down my neck. I hate the mess, like a sudden infestation of beetles and cockroaches. My need to exterminate, to feel clean, kicks in.
“Stare at the chandelier,” he instructs, sensing my trouble.
I plant my gaze on the chandelier, only a couple crystals swaying from the air conditioner. My mind nosedives when something cold touches my belly. I glance down and see the charcoal king above my belly button.
He’s not…
Connor, dressed only in navy lounge pants, makes his way across the room. “When I return, if I see that you’ve moved the king from its exact place, you’ll be in serious trouble, Rose.”
Lovely. A test. One I’m sure I’ll pass. He’s probably headed to the closet, to grab the handcuffs and the leather collar.
He pauses by our dresser, to assess me, his harsher gaze swallowing every inch of my body. My breath deepens, and my ribs collapse and expand, threatening to knock over the king. Fuck. I focus on that stupid little king and try to force it still with willpower alone.
It stops trembling.
“One more thing before I go.” His gaze sweeps me again. “Spread your legs open.”
I don’t move.
“Now.” His severe tone simultaneously goads me to unfreeze my muscles but then freeze them all over again, out of spite.
I pocket this bit of stubbornness and carefully spread my legs, watching the king remain motionless with my precision.
“Further.”
I ache to spit out the panties and retort something obstinate at him. I must take too long, or maybe Connor craves touch, because he walks over, clasps my leg and finishes the distance to his liking. They’re spread as far as I’m physically capable, exposed and soaked.
I actually moan into the damn fabric of my underwear. I really want him inside of me, hard and fast and never-ending. He’d accomplish this to perfection too. But he resituates the king that rolled off my stomach and then steps away from the bed again.
His demeanor changes, refusing me one ounce of attention. He walks…towards the bedroom door.
He’s leaving. My voice is muffled through the fabric when I try to yell his name. The king teeters, and I focus, unable to speak or move.
He doesn’t turn around. He unlocks the door and disappears into the hallway, shutting it behind him. There is no lock on the other side, which means anyone can slip in…
Spit out the panties without moving. And tear off his head. That is my first goal. I could cheat, and he’d never know. I could spit out the fabric and place the chess piece back in the same spot if it rolls off. He’s given me control of my hands and legs, but cheating…
I wouldn’t be able to marvel in my success, knowing I achieved it through a shortcut.
Very carefully, I reach up with my hands and remove the panties, my gaze trained on this enemy charcoal king. I will destroy you.
When the panties are beside me, no longer barring me from speech, I use my voice. “Connor! CONNOR!”
I hear no movement outside, and I notice the array of chess pieces on the floor again. I swallow and look back at the chandelier. Maybe this is all to help curb my OCD—or maybe that’s just part of his goal. I don’t like it.
I am completely naked with my legs spread wide open. A chess piece on my belly. And I need to know what’s happening outside. I need to see him. What if something is wrong with Jane? What if that’s why he left?
I can’t just sit here and wait.
My mind is on a turntable.
Screw him five ways to hell. I swat the king off my stomach and climb off the bed. Don’t look at the ground. I swallow again and grab my black robe, slipping it on and marching to the door.
I swing it open, expecting to find an empty hallway and light bathing the nursery where Connor has traitorously gone without me. When I turn my head right, I spot Connor leaning against the wall. He checks his watch.
“You’re just standing there?” I gape. My blood simmers, my chest rising in rage.
“You lasted one minute.”
I slap his arm, and he grips my wrist, tugging my body into his so quickly. He’s pulling me up on my tiptoes, my face closer to his but not quite equal.
My heart thrashes. “You were timing me?”
“You didn’t listen to me.” His other hand grazes the bareness of my thigh, sliding higher, maybe to see if I put on panties. My breath hitches as his fingers skim my clit.
“I didn’t…” Speak properly, Rose. “I didn’t know how long you’d be gone. You just left me there.” I growl the last three words. I worry that he’ll forget about me—that something will pull him away and he’ll leave me tied up or in a compromising position for someone else to find. This isn’t the first time I’ve had trouble being left alone while he checks on Jane.
He clasps my jaw with one strong hand, his thumb skimming my bottom lip. “Je reviendrai toujours à toi.” I will always return to you.
I blink, my fury dissipating. I will always return to you.
This was the point of his test, I realize. He kisses me, his fingers sliding through my hair, to the back of my head. I melt some, slowly beginning to believe and trust him to not forget about me.
[ 15 ]
ROSE COBALT
“She loves that stuffed animal. Do not lose it,” I instruct Ryke for the tenth time. In the living room, Jane lies at his feet, whacking the pink-frilled blanket with a rattle toy. Her favorite stuffed lion is always in her sight, and when she loses it, she screams horrifically, as though the world is ending.
Moffy is in bounds, crawling towards Jane from his array of toys. Ryke scoops him around the waist and the little boy laughs, dressed in a Spider-Man onesie. He tries to touch his uncle’s scruff.
Ryke is more comfortable with his nephew since Lily and Lo don’t have a printed list of rules for handling their kid. He told me that last week when I asked why he never visits Jane in her nursery but he’s constantly in Moffy’s.
I tap my high heel, the threatening noise dying on the rug.
Ryke suddenly tosses Maximoff in the air, the baby out of his hands. Wide, hot and frantic laser beams shoot out of my eyes. Ryke catches him around the waist upon descent, and Moffy laughs again in delight.
My mouth is permanently unhinged. I think I just had a myocardial infarction.
“Ryke,” I almost shout his name. Jane will not live past tomorrow with him.
“Yeah, I got it. The lion is fucking important.” He sets down Moffy, and the baby beelines for Jane again.
“I swear to everything that’s holy, if her first word is fuck I’m going to strangle you in your sleep.”
Ryke sighs heavily, glancing between the babies and me. “We’ve been over this. If you don’t want me cursing around your baby, then don’t fucking let me babysit.”
That’s not an option. When Jane and Moffy were first born, Lily and I took time off work to be with our babies, but now that they’re a little older, we have to return to our companies.
Halway Comics has launched a brand new superhero through a twelve-issue event. Lo, through his own keen eye and passion, discovered the writer and the artist. Even though the company now has a marketing team, Lily is in charge of merchandising the new superhero throughout Superheroes & Scones: cardboard cutouts, sweatshirts, lunch boxes, watches, action figures and more.
It’s a critical time for them. This superhero could launch their brand into the stratosphere of Marvel and DC and Image Comics. Or it could fail.
I also lent control of my boutique, Calloway Couture, to trusted employees while I focus on Callo
way Couture Babies with Loren, the fashion line now owned by Hale Co. The only company at a stasis is Cobalt Inc.—which has reached a high profit margin and needs no further growth or expansion right now.
Our “no nanny” policy is still in place. We take turns working from home to watch the kids. Ryke and Daisy offer to babysit sometimes, and I wish my little sister could be here to help her boyfriend and to restrain him from tossing children and things into the air.
She’s in New York City for a therapy appointment with Frederick.
Maybe I can wait for her to come home…
I glance at my cell.
“Janie will be fine with me,” Ryke tries to assure me. He sits on the rug in front of both babies, and they crawl onto his ankles with jubilant smiles. Connor and I argue about her godparents—the same way that Lily and Lo have trouble choosing. They won’t tell us who they’re leaning towards, and we haven’t announced who we are either.
I always lean towards Lily, my closest sister.
But Connor trusts Ryke. He tells me all the time that Ryke is more suited to take care of handfuls of children. Lo can’t handle eight kids, if we have that many. Ryke could.
I recall Connor’s confidence in Ryke. I hone in on the fact that he’d be willing to leave Jane with him forever if we died.
Okay, Ryke. I’m trusting you with my daughter. No lists this time. I desperately try not to think about him throwing her in the air like a football.
“Don’t be a hero,” I say, my tone icy. “If you think something is wrong, just call me.”
“You’re on speed dial, Rose.”
I nod once, and my heels finally unglue from the rug. It takes an incredible amount of force to slowly walk away and out the door.
* * *
I should have stayed home.
The singular thought crosses my mind when the Chief Quality and Product Integrity Officer of Hale Co. decides to ramble about branding for Calloway Couture Babies instead of focusing on his particular field of interest.
Being with Jane is less of a headache and a million times more pleasant than this.
“The board of executives are going to make the final call on what to name the brand,” James reminds me for the tenth time. “You should let go of this so we can move forward. We’re working on a timeline.”
“I’m aware of the timeline.” CCB will be in stores this summer, and until then, I need to sort through labels, advertising, merchandising, and appeasing the person with the most sway: the head of this company.
Loren Hale.
I’d rather focus solely on designs, but I love the control Loren has granted me. He designated me the head of the baby clothes division. This isn’t just a fashion line. It’s a subsidiary company of a huge corporation, something I’ve never been entirely a part of.
I spent years in college struggling to sell my designs to big corporations like H&M, succeeding only a fraction of the time, and ultimately letting the dream fall to the wayside. The stress and uncertainty was driving me insane and it didn’t hold the same value it once did.
Now that I finally have the opportunity to see my clothes permanently in department stores, I won’t compromise all of my artistic beliefs.
James continues talking, and I hold up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence.
“I’ve heard everything you’re telling me from the Chief Marketing Officer.” Albeit, on the phone while he’s away on vacation. “So if the next words aren’t an original idea or thought, I’m going to cut off your tongue.”
The ash-blond man, twice my age, goes silent. He pushes his thin, silver-rimmed glasses further up his nose.
I drum my nails on my desk. “I like you, James.”
“Could have fooled me, Mrs. Cobalt.” He lets out an unsure, uncomfortable laugh.
My expression never softens. “You’re in my office, sitting in one of my chairs.” I motion to where his ass resides, five-feet from my mahogany desk. “But if you keep coming in here just to reiterate that the company wants to put HC on the tags and not CCB, you’re not going to make it past my doorway.”
I hate being the bitch boss. It’s a cliché that I most naturally fit into. My cold personality aside, I struggle to handle my employees and these businessmen any other way. They all look at me as a twenty-six-year-old girl, seated here from nepotism and notoriety. I can’t trounce the judgment without time and a track record, showing I deserve this position because I’m intelligent, hardworking, and damn good at creating clothes—even miniature-sized ones for little monsters.
He shifts uneasily in his chair. Good. A small twinge of guilt flares, foreign and very, very unwelcome.
“Anything else?” I ask, clutching my pen like a knife, my fingertips whitening. I feel like an Amazonian Warrior, ready to assail an enemy at first glance. The only problem: poor James is not my enemy. He’s on my team, but it doesn’t feel that way.
“Nothing as of right now,” James mutters before standing. I watch him dash to the door, ready to leave my office. I bet the first thing he’ll do is gossip about me. How nasty of a bitch I am. How my husband probably isn’t satisfying me at home.
That was yesterday’s comments I overheard in the breakroom, right beside the microwave and Fizzle vending machine.
Today’s gossip will be more colorful, I’m sure.
When James leaves, I spot a feminine body outside, fist raised. She lowers it and procures a congenial smile, red hair splayed over her shoulder. Hannah is the only female I interact with on a daily basis, and it’s usually perfunctory comments or the frequent, Loren Hale would like to see you in his office.
I’m trying to grow used to Loren having an assistant, one with long, treadmill-toned legs and breasts that bounce as she walks. If I didn’t know my brother-in-law’s level of devotion to Lily and his type of girl—twiggy with minimal curves—I might be a tad worried for my sister.
James slides past Hannah, not attempting to hide the quick glance at her breasts. I grip the pen harder, imagining stabbing the point into his neck. Not that I’d actually do it.
If Hannah notices his loitering gaze, she doesn’t let on. She rests her hipbone on the door frame, dressed in a cute green blouse and high-waisted pin-skirt. Her pumps are too short for my personal taste though.
“Loren Hale would like to see you in his office,” she tells me.
I don’t restrain a dramatic eye roll. “For the millionth time, he can just call me instead of wasting your time.”
“I’m his assistant. It’s my job,” she says with a forced smile. We rarely talk, but I’ve never been the approachable type. The few friends I had in prep school most likely flocked to me for status. Or maybe they stuck around because they could rely on me: the responsible, loyal friend. I’d pick up a forgotten textbook from Sebastian’s locker at midnight, calling a custodian to let me in, and spend another ten minutes delivering it to his house. Just so he could cram for a test.
I was that friend.
When I graduated, most vanished, off to Harvard, Georgetown, University of Pennsylvania, and Yale. I chose Princeton.
I had multiple friends in college, but after my family was thrust into the media, they either wanted nothing to do with my deplorable, fame-hungry family, or they started calling me daily like we painted each other’s toenails every night.
I had to choose between being alone or having fake friends.
So I chose my sisters.
And Connor, I suppose.
In the public, there are girls who love me—the ones who ravage gossip magazines, finding me an inspiration. I wish these girls surrounded me. The women here, the ones in corporate America, view fame as vanity, as a disgusting flaw in our country.
Hannah regards me this way right now. With quiet curiosity and contempt.
It’s a shame. We’re both outnumbered by men—shouldn’t we band together now? After years, I still struggle with people’s perceptions of me. Sometimes, I do really wish I could change them, but then again, I wouldn’t even
know where to begin.
I follow Hannah down the hall, walking by her side. “So what’s your dream position at this company?” I ask, making small talk at least. Maybe we can be friends. It’s a gross, emotional thought. One I want to whisk away. I’ve tried making friends. It never works. They either come to me by fate or I remain friendless.
I have twenty-six years of experience in the matter.
She gives me a side-eye. You should have left this up to Fate, Rose. “I have a great salary-paying job. I don’t want to be anywhere else.” We stop at Loren’s office door, the walls all glass with a grand view of Philadelphia.
“I didn’t mean that as an insult. There’s no shame in being a secretary.” I stand my ground firmly, even if my skin has begun to shrivel.
Her eyes blink with more heat. “I’m an executive assistant,” she lashes. “And not everyone can sleep their way to the top.”
My back bristles. I don’t know why I hate fighting with women more than men. If there’s an equally distasteful girl, throwing venom my way, I should attack just the same as I would a guy. Equality for all, right?
I hesitate, but not long enough to go unnoticed. “You can’t talk to me like that,” I snap, so much for being friends.
Her shoulders pull back and she elongates her neck, about an inch taller than me. “I don’t work for you.”
I’m half-shocked that she just uttered those words. The other half of me ices over.
“I was asking if you had any dreams, which I see the only one you have is to be fired after two weeks of work.” Out of the corner of my vision, I see Loren standing from behind his desk, his suit-and-tie wardrobe not as jarring as the corporate atmosphere he’s placed in. Thank God he kept his personal style intact: skinny black tie, black button-down, black slacks.
Translation: He’s still Loren Hale.
Loren’s concern gathers as he watches me square off with his secre—assistant. I try to rewire this word in my brain.
I add, “And I don’t know what makes you think I fucked my way here—”
She actually cuts me off, “How about your sex tapes. They’re what made you famous, right? Everyone knows you only landed this job because you have fans. Otherwise Hale Co. would’ve chosen another, more qualified designer.”
Fuel the Fire Page 13