Fuel the Fire

by Krista Ritchie

  “Is she your wife only in the legal sense?!” a reporter yells. Security squeezes through the rows to escort him out, but he struggles to stay put, clinging to the frame of his plastic chair.

  I don’t acknowledge him. “I met Rose when I was fifteen and she was fourteen, and through what she would call fate and I’d call circumstance of our hobbies, we’d cross paths dozens of times over the course of a decade.”

  I’m unlocking a private history book for millions of people to read, and maybe they still won’t understand the love I share with Rose, but they’ll at least know how much I desire her.

  “At seventeen, I attended the same national Model UN conference as Rose, and a delegate for Greenland locked us in a janitorial closet. He also stole our phones.”

  The journalists chuckle at the image.

  “He had to beat us dishonorably because he couldn’t beat us any other way.” I stare around the room, at all of them, and they quiet at this statement. “Rose said being locked in a confined space with me was the worst two hours of her life.”

  They look bemused, brows furrowing. I can’t help but smile.

  “You’re confused because you don’t know whether she was exaggerating or whether she was being truthful. But the truth is that we are complex people with the ability to love to hate and to hate to love, and I wouldn’t trade her for any other person.”

  They jot notes, the cameras flash again.

  “So that day, stuck beside mops and dirtied towels, I could’ve picked the lock five minutes in and let her go. Instead, I purposefully spent two hours with a girl who wore passion like a dress made of diamonds and hair made of flames. Every day of my life, I am enamored. Every day of my life, I am bewitched. And every day of my life, I spend it with her.”

  My chest swells with more power, lifting me higher.

  “I’ve slept with many different kinds of people, and yes, the three that spoke to the press are among them.”

  The flashes increase, along with mutterings, but I never waver.

  “Rose is the only person I’ve ever loved, and through that love, we married and started a family. There is no other meaning behind this, and for you to conjure one is nothing less than a malicious attack against my marriage and my child.”

  I pause, and they all wait intently again. As though I’ll slam the gavel right after I announce what I am. After I step into their box so they can better understand.

  “Anything else has no relevance. I can’t be what you need me to be. So you’ll have to accept this version or waste your time questioning something that has no answer. I know acceptance isn’t easy when you’re unsure of what you’re accepting, but all I can say is that you’re accepting me as me.”

  They go from bewilderment to being aware that this may end with loose threads.

  In my eyes, it’s all tied up.

  I rest my hands on either side of the podium. My eyes grazing the journalists, the camera lenses, and I settle proudly and comfortably with the choice I’ve made.

  I leave them with a quote from Sylvia Plath.

  “‘I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart.’” My lips pull higher, into a livelier smile. “‘I am, I am, I am.’”

  With this, I step away from the podium, and I exit to a cacophony of journalists shouting and asking me to clarify.

  Adapt to me.

  I’m satisfied, more than I even predicted.

  Some people will rewind this conference on their television, to listen closely and try to understand me. I don’t need their understanding, but my daughter will—and I hope the minds of her peers are wide open with vibrant hues of passion.

  I hope they all paint the world with color.

  [ 55 ]

  ROSE COBALT

  It’s 3 a.m. and I barely drove to Manhattan undetected. As I enter a wealthy apartment complex, I lift my oversized sunglasses to my head. They’ve been obscuring my vision in the dark of night, but I needed a decent disguise. Since Connor’s poignant speech this afternoon, the media hasn’t lost their rabid bite. They’ve tried to leech all of us for a clearer, more definitive answer.

  I’m proud to say that no one is giving the press what they want. I couldn’t discern my father or my mother’s reaction backstage, but they skirt around Connor’s sexuality whenever they’re asked.

  My phone buzzes. Tell me when you get there safe. – Connor

  He knows my plan, and if Jane wasn’t so fussy today, I know he’d have joined me. I’m here. I text back.

  Along a carpeted hallway, I stop at a door and knock hard, not once but three times, hearing footsteps. It swings open, revealing my husband’s therapist. Frederick rubs his tired eyes, only in a pair of blue boxers. “Rose?” He squints at the harsh light. “What are you doing here?”

  “Is this really how you answer the door, Frederick?” I wonder.

  He just notices his lack of clothes, but instead of covering himself, he leans out of the doorway, peering down the empty hall.

  “Connor isn’t with me,” I announce. “And the complex’s security is horrendous. I told them my sick, decrepit grandmother lived here and they just let me in.”

  Frederick scratches his messy brown hair. “You’re here for the cat,” he assumes.

  “I’m here for my cat,” I validate. “Connor and I agree that it’s time for her to come home.”

  I expect a fight. I’m ready for one, purse braced like a weapon on my arm.

  He strangely swings the door wider open, inviting me inside. I try to smother my surprise, and I enter his bachelor pad: leather furniture, bland walls with no splash of color, silver kitchen appliances.

  “Sadie!” I call. “I’m here to take you home.” Her bell collar jingles, but I can’t see her anywhere.

  “I watched the press conference,” Frederick says, sluggishly sliding onto his leather bar stool. He’s not going to help me find her.

  “And?” I rest my hip on his couch and dig through my purse for cat treats.

  “It reminded me of how far he’s come.”

  I freeze in place, not expecting this response either, and I lock eyes with Frederick. He’s never really told me anything about Connor. I always thought their client-patient privileges prevented it and maybe so did their friendship.

  “I first met him when he was twelve,” he explains, “and I thought he was brilliant. He spoke like he’d been living for decades, not twelve years. It took him some time to open up to me, but when he did, I realized that he lacked so much empathy for the human race. He thought of people as stepping-stones to greater achievements and nothing more. You see, a narcissist is incapable of love, and I never believed he would love a single soul until he met you.”

  The declaration almost pushes me backwards. I know Connor loves me, but Frederick is a man who’s seen Connor through many facets of his life. He knew him before I ever did. Hearing that Frederick believed Connor would come to love me—it holds greater meaning, more power and more truth.

  “How did you know?” I ask.

  “You didn’t just fascinate him, Rose. You made him feel for more than just himself. He cared about you, and you had no larger purpose in his life other than existing.” He shakes his head with a disbelieving smile. “I never would have thought that twelve-year-old boy would become this man. It’s quite extraordinary.”

  It is. My heart pounds with pride for Connor. I glance back at Frederick, ignoring the fact that he’s in saggy, wrinkled boxers. “I want to thank you,” I tell him, “for everything you’ve done for my little sister so far.” He’s helped her find healthy methods to combat her PTSD and panic attacks, and he was the one who advised her to get an ultrasound.

  It hasn’t gone unnoticed by me.

  Frederick smiles. “I’m happy that Daisy is letting me help her. I think we’re all in agreement that she deserves some peace.”

  “Yes,” I get choked up, my throat swelling. Are you going to cry, Rose? In front of Frederick in his saggy, wrinkled box
ers? God, no. Pull yourself together. I continue digging in my purse and find the salmon-flavored treats.

  I shake the plastic bag, and the orange tabby cat darts out from beneath the couch. I snatch her around the waist, and she surprisingly lets me hold her. I can feel her ribs. “She’s underweight,” I glare at him.

  “She was overweight when Connor brought her.”

  I flip my hair off my shoulder. “She was perfect.” I scratch behind her ears, and she lets out a large tractor purr. She still is perfect. “Do you have her carrier?” I’m afraid she’ll pounce out of my arms if I try to cradle her to the car.

  He nods and heads to the closet. “You and Connor make a good team.”

  I realize that Connor must have called Frederick in advance, not tonight since he was surprised by my arrival, but maybe some time ago and talked Frederick into returning Sadie to us. And I’ve come to add the final say-so and cart her home.

  If only the rest of our problems had been easy fixes like this one. It reminds me of Scott. Of the media’s constant, unyielding gaze on Jane. Of Jonathan Hale’s absence from our lives for weeks on end. Of Loren and Connor being suffocated by paparazzi if they go outside together, in any fashion.

  It’s all a big pile of shit. A mess that may never be polished and spotless, but if we scrub a little harder, maybe it’ll be clean enough.

  [ 57 ]

  CONNOR COBALT

  “Does Rose give better blow jobs after two-plus years or does she still suck?” Scott asks with a snide smile. “Pun not intended.” He saw the first time she ever blew me—the first time she ever gave oral to anyone—since it was recorded in the bathroom.

  Fry his dick.

  Rose’s hostile voice returns to my head.

  I internally grin. I can have her again as my conscience and do this right. I’m certain of it now. “She’s a fast learner,” is all I say.

  I watch him sloppily eat a bar burger in a dim booth of Saturn Bridges. We’re shoved in the back corner where no one can see us, no fans or journalists lurking.

  He licks his fingers. “Daisy could probably teach her a few tricks.”

  I wait for the perfunctory laugh, but it never arrives. He’s serious.

  I lean back and take a swig of beer, relaxed. Inside, my blood begins to boil, and I concentrate on loosening my grip from the bottle. “Experience?” I wonder with a lighthearted laugh. The game has shifted just slightly, and I remind myself to pivot my strategy later to accommodate it.

  Scott grabs his burger again. “Let’s put it this way, I would pay her ten grand to suck my cock right now, but her psychotic boyfriend would never let me near her.” He takes a large bite.

  Because Ryke values and respects women—he’s psychotic. Lo called Scott a “human turd” yesterday but I honestly think that’s being too kind. “What about during Princesses of Philly?” I wonder. “Ryke wasn’t with Daisy back then.”

  He chews and swigs his beer. “They were still together all the time. I wish he left her with me for ten minutes. I would’ve had that little blonde bitch on her knees so fast.” He licks his fingers again.

  I smile and stomach this lie, “I always thought she liked to suck cock.” Richard, ew. I know, Rose. I might as well be gnawing on rotten meat, the distaste sliding down my throat.

  He nods in agreement, and then points his burger at me, the lettuce falling out of the bun. “You should fire your PR person, by the way.” He dunks his burger in mustard. “The fact that she told you to lie about sleeping with a bunch of men is fucking retarded. I can think of twenty different publicity stunts that’d top it.”

  He thinks Naomi advised me to say I’ve slept with the three guys but leave an open-ended conclusion, so I’d gain more attention. To me, the media attention was the adverse effect of my speech, a consequence that I knew would happen. To Scott, it’s a benefit.

  “I might,” I lie, leaning back and taking another swig of a beer. “Do you have a publicist?”

  Scott pops a fry in his mouth. “No, I don’t need one.” Rose growls in my head, I hope he chokes on that fry.

  I feign concern, touching my lips, my brows cinching.

  “What?” He chews slower.

  “I stopped by GBA’s offices yesterday to talk about advertising for Cobalt Inc.—nothing for Princesses of Philly.” I did actually meet with advertising at GBA for Cobalt Inc. yesterday, on purpose just to cover my tracks. “I wouldn’t go over your head with the production for season two.”

  “You better not, you dick,” he jokes with a laugh. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans back like me, attention now mine. It’s like hooking a fish in the throat. I watch him pick up his beer. “And?”

  “I overheard some things.” I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but hearsay is hardly verifiable one way or the other. I scratch my neck like this is hard for me to share. “I’m telling you this because I think it’s in your best interest to know. Otherwise, I’d just shrug it off.” I gesture my beer to him. “So Princesses of Philly came up offhand, and I asked if they knew you, since you were in charge of season one. The execs…” I cringe.

  “What’d they say?” he snaps, his fist tightening around the bottle.

  “They mockingly called you the porn guy, and they didn’t seem to take you seriously.”

  Steam might as well be blowing out of his fucking ears, and I sincerely hope he grows fond of these sentiments. He’s going to be asphyxiated with them in the next few weeks.

  “I know you’re looking at a high-level position at GBA if we sign to a season two of the reality show, and I have a lot of experience in the corporate world. Reputation can make or break you, and being the porn guy will make it difficult to acquire respect from people who matter. It’s one thing for GBA to promise you twenty-year security in a job with high turnover, and it’s another for you to have purpose there. They could put you in a cubicle and tell you to shut up.”

  He groans out a couple swear words and then glowers at the wall. He doesn’t even question the validity of my statement. I’m probably his best friend in Philadelphia now, so why would he?

  And then he points at me with his beer bottle. “What do you think I should do?”

  What do you think I should do? I’d call him an idiot, but I’m more of a genius for placing a gun in the middle of a table, telling him to pick it up and shoot whoever I want. In this case, I’m going to tell him to turn it around on himself and pull the trigger.

  “You need to distance yourself from the distribution of the sex tapes in some way.” I leave it open-ended for Scott, so he’ll feel like it’s his idea, not mine. “Let me ask you this: what do you want more, to profit off the remaining undistributed sex tapes or to gain an executive position at GBA while being more useful than a stapler or a fax machine?”

  I know which holds more importance to him, which is why he’s going to give me what I want without a single hurt feeling.

  This is how you never make enemies.

  “GBA,” he says. He lets out a vexed breath. “I’d have given Rose the sex tapes if she just fucking signed to the season two.”

  “She doesn’t want to make a deal with you,” I tell him. “But she’s finding benefits in reviving the reality show. I convinced her that the exposure would help Calloway Couture Babies, so I think she’ll come around within the next month.” Not true. Everyone is still adamantly against a second season. It was never going to happen.

  “I don’t want to give the tapes away without something in return, and I don’t want the press to keep stating who I fucking sold them to.” Celebrity Crush likes to track the distribution of the sex tapes, and they always cite Scott Van Wright in the articles.

  For once, Celebrity Crush’s tactless journalism may spin in our favor.

  I wait for him to sort out different scenarios in his head, and I bite into my blue cheese burger. After a full minute, I feel his eyes set on me.

  “Would you buy them off me?” he asks. “It’d be a silent t
ransaction. That way I’d get some money, and you can get off to them or whatever the fuck you want.”

  I shrug, not at all eager. “It depends how much you want for them.”

  “I’d take fifty grand for the rest at this point.” That’s nothing. He’s received over a million for just one sex tape before.

  “How many undistributed tapes are left?” I wonder.

  “I’ll show you,” he says. “I’ll call my lawyer, you call yours, and I’ll sell you all the rights back tomorrow.” He’s the eager one, ready to patch his sullied reputation before he’s even officially begun working at GBA.

  If all goes right, he’ll never work there.

  I nod a couple times. “Yeah,” I say. “I think we can work something out.”

  [ 57 ]

  ROSE COBALT

  Scott Van Wright (douchebag motherfucker) 0 – Rose & Connor Cobalt (brilliant) 1.

  Using an iron poker, I stir the flames in our backyard fire pit, smoke billowing towards the star-canvassed sky. The fire and heat of May builds sweat beneath my blouse. But it’s the best sweat of my life.

  “I’m ready,” I tell Connor, standing up and tossing the poker aside.

  He holds a cardboard box filled with DVDs and USB ports, every device Scott recorded the tapes on. After their meeting this afternoon with a financial transaction and contracts signed, Connor now owns the digital and film rights of Princesses of Philly footage. He said that he made sure the contract was specific. Connor only wanted ownership of footage containing appearances by himself and me—our bedroom activities.

  Anything else still legally belongs to Scott, but we were only after the sex tapes and now we have them.

  Connor passes me a DVD case and sets the box at our feet. “Fifteen sex tapes,” he says, still in slight disbelief that Scott could’ve profited fifteen more times off us.