Fuel the Fire (11 page)

“It’s not like I’ve sent full-frontal nudes.”

I chime in, “That statement implies that you’ve sent nudes before.”

Ryke runs his hands through his hair. “No one fucking asked you to insert yourself in this conversation, Cobalt.”

I can’t even take offense to the weak rebuttal. First off, I technically started the conversation by asking him if he sexts. And secondly, his relationship with Lo never makes me feel inferior or jealous. I never weigh meaningful relationships against each other the way Ryke does. I weigh profit and benefits.

“Those of us with IQs in the .01 percentile have an invitation to all conversations,” I tell him. “I know you’re not privy to this, so don’t be upset. There are geniuses. There are rational people. There are idiots. And then there’s you.”

Ryke lets out a laugh beneath his breath. “I’d like to know how you weren’t beat to shit in prep school.” Before I respond, he adds, “And I’m being serious this time. If you said that where I went to school, guys would’ve gotten in your face.” Misplaced concern begins to wash his features. It may be the first time he’s questioned this part of my past.

I start winding the rope around my arm to avoid tangling. Lo scratches his neck, standing off the rock wall and nearing his brother’s side. They now face me.

This is new.

“Ryke and I were talking the other day…” Lo searches for the right words but has to turn to his older brother to finish. That’s rare too.

I frown.

“You were barely fucking hurt in the Paris riot,” Ryke says. “Why?”

Lo adds, “I saw you duck punches like it was nothing.”

Unlike Ryke, I have no problem explaining the deeper parts of my history. He becomes brick-walled the further anyone digs into his past, but I only shutdown if it costs my reputation or if someone is searching for an emotional response from me. Facts are easy. Simple.

I tie off the rope and throw it into a basket with the others. “I’m very flattered by your concern for me, but I was never bullied. I was”—I can’t restrain my grin—“well-liked by most at Faust and hated by almost no one. I needed some people, and so I was painstakingly nice to them. I’d never speak to certain guys the way that I speak to both of you.”

“Thanks for that,” Ryke mutters, but his shoulders are more relaxed. He was worried that my past was as tortured as his little brother’s. It’s not. Lo had more against him than I ever did. He believed he was worthless because his father told him that every day, and he had to find his self-confidence that had been ripped from him.

I never lost mine.

I look between them: Ryke with his disheveled hair and brooding scowl; Lo with his sharpened jawline and daggered amber eyes. I’m a misfit when I hang around them—polished, hair actually combed—but the irony is that their insides are probably warmer than mine.

“As for the fighting,” I explain, “I took fencing, Taekwondo, and jiu-jitsu as recreational activities while I was at Faust.”

“Let me guess,” Lo banters, “chess club was full.”

“Not full,” I say. “Too easy.”

Lo’s phone buzzes and he glances at the screen. “I have to take this.” He walks over to the empty receptionist counter.

Ryke hangs by my side. I remember that he had trouble finding Daisy a Christmas present at the mall. He claimed he’s never had to buy a girl so many gifts, and it’s becoming harder, especially since she has everything she wants already.

“Does Daisy like silk?” I ask.

Ryke’s jaw hardens, his brows cinching in irritation and warning. You’d think I asked if she liked it in the ass. “For you to give to her,” I clarify. “Lingerie.”

His darkened glare basically says:
don’t ever repeat that.

“You’re a pleasure.”

“Yeah? I don’t talk about your wife’s fetishes.”

I tilt my head again. “Daisy has a silk fetish?” I can barely keep my composure, my lips rising.

“Fuck off,” Ryke says. “And aren’t you supposed to be celebrating me today?”

“I left my excitement in my limo,” I tell him. “Maybe you can go fetch it for me.”

“How about no backhanded compliments or fucking insults?” Ryke squats to collect the six harnesses. “Or is that asking too much?”

“It’s asking a lot,” I tell him honestly.

Ryke finishes organizing the equipment, and we both watch Lo, who stands by the receptionist desk. He gesticulates wildly with his hands as he talks on the phone.

“He’s doing okay, right?” Ryke suddenly asks.

Cobalt Inc. is a five-minute drive from Hale Co. and I see him more during a workweek than Ryke. I’d know whether he was coping with the stress. “I think he’s doing well. Better than I predicted.” I’m happy that I was wrong. I thought he wouldn’t be able to handle the first week.

Lo isn’t the same person I met in college. He’s so much stronger than that guy.

Ryke turns his back to Lo and angles towards me, seriousness in his strict demeanor. “If something happens to me…” He clears his throat. “You’ll take care of them?”

He means Lo and Daisy. He’s waiting for me to agree. “Living donors almost never die during transplant surgery.” He shouldn’t worry about this.

“Connor,” he says, “I don’t want your fucking facts. I just want you to say that you’ll…” He shakes his head, running his hands through his thick hair like it’s a frustrating request—at least requesting this from
me.
“Fuck this.” He straightens up, his gaze drifting to the tinted gym window, the parking lot empty except for Rose’s Escalade.

For some reason, I keep envisioning a flock of teenagers with signs that say
Marry Me, Ryke Meadows!
He’s popular among the younger girls since Daisy is only nineteen. But only Walter Aimes, the
Celebrity Crush
photographer, should know where we are right now, today. Otherwise, Rose dyed her hair for nothing.

I suddenly say, “I’ll make you a promise. And I always keep my promises.”

Ryke turns back to me. “Yeah?”

I nod. “You die
climbing
and I’ll take care of them. We both know that you’re not going to die during that surgery and you’re not going to die any other way than by your own pursuits.” The longer he free-solo climbs, the shorter his lifespan. His longevity is in his hands, and for Ryke to believe it’s in anyone else’s is simply bullshit.

If he’s so afraid of leaving the people he loves, then maybe he should start rethinking his hobbies.

“You’re such a pain in my ass,” he says lightly, heading towards the locker rooms where the girls are.

I follow beside him. “Impossible,” I say, “I’ve never been near your ass.”

He flips me off, the usual response. Our friendship may be odd, but at least I can call it one.

[ 10 ]

ROSE COBALT

A distant ring fills my drowsy mind, and the constant, pulsing noise grows as I begin to wake from a dead sleep. I squint in the darkened room, the blue glow of the clock blinking 3:42 a.m. on my nightstand. My phone simultaneously vibrates and rings against the wood.

I numbly reach out for it, turning on my side. Connor’s arm slides off my waist. Who the hell is calling me this early? I want to murder them, but I’m too tired to think of clever ways to enact my revenge.

“Rose?” Connor whispers, waking too. He props his elbow on the pillow and runs a hand through his unkempt hair.

I unlock my phone and answer before I distinguish the words on the screen. “Hello?” I say softly, yawning into my arm. I tug the sheet closer to my chest, my nipples nearly peeking from my black silk cami. It’s not like the person on the phone line can see, but I’m too delirious to take stock in this.

“Rose, what have you done?”

Oh God. Someone kill me. “Mother,” I say icily, pressing two fingers to my forehead and tightening my eyes shut. I open them after a deep breath.

Connor relaxes against the headboard and collects his phone off the other end table.

“You dyed your hair,” she fumes, irate with this news. “You
dyed
your hair
orange
without telling me. You didn’t even consult the publicists before you went out in public. Did you do this yourself?”

“Where are you reading this?” I dazedly lift my body up next to Connor and peer over his shoulder. He scrolls through the
Celebrity Crush
website.

“Online,” she practically spits. “Did you hear me?”

I bite my tongue and slowly say, “I heard you, Mother.”

Connor clicks into an article, posted five minutes ago with the headline:
Rose Calloway’s New Hair Color! [Exclusive Photos].
My chest begins to unbind. Five clear photos show me exiting Philly Rocks! with my sisters, Connor, Ryke and Lo. Walter Aimes zoomed in on my hair, styled in a high pony. Nothing special except that it looks like a fox died on my head.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I tell her. “And what are you still doing awake?” I feel old, asking my mother this. Connor watches me intently and I whisper to him, “Am I old?”

His lips pull upward. “No, darling. We’re still young.”

“Good,” I say, putting the phone back to my ear. My mother is answering me in a spew of heated syllables that I don’t want to digest at three in the morning. It’ll keep me up all night with an upset stomach.

I catch the tail end. “…Tori has an opening tomorrow. I already texted her, and she said she can take you at noon.”

“You texted your hairdresser in the middle of the night?”
Let the woman sleep.

“We’re friends,” she says like it’s nothing, slightly cooling down. “Will you make it to her?”

“Fine,” I agree. “Noon, Tori, I’ll skip my work lunch.” If
Celebrity Crush
wasn’t a victory tonight, I might’ve fought her on this.

I wave to Connor to return to sleep, but he catches my hand midair and laces his fingers with mine. I’m about to say goodbye to my mom when she adds, “I’m sorry about the house, Rose. I meant to call you earlier. Your father and I thought they’d take your bid.”

My back straightens off the headboard. “What?” I immediately put the phone on speaker. “The realtor never called me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“That’s really unprofessional of them,” my mother begins to fume again without giving me more details. I am swatting the air like I’m attacking the perpetrators who stole this house beneath me. I’ve been trying to buy the mansion down the street since early November. It’s diagonal from us, and it has the perfect amount of bedrooms and baths for either one of my sisters or myself when our families grow larger.

I’m aware that we all can’t live in this house together forever. There will be a time where we have to split up, and I’m hoping that separation won’t be miles and miles away.

Down the street seemed more ideal.

“Where’d you hear this?” Connor suddenly asks, his brows furrowing in confusion. We put in the bid together. It was a lot of money, and I didn’t think anyone would buy it out from under us.

My mother’s voice turns high-pitched and freakishly cheerful. “Connor, how are you doing tonight? Did you approve of Rose’s hair color?”

My scathing look could burn holes in a man, and yet Connor doesn’t even bat an eye. He’s sleeping in the same bed as a volcano that would very much like to sear and scald everything around me, including him, and he’s okay with it. What is wrong with my husband?

He’s at ease as he says, “I’m doing well, Samantha. I also don’t seek Rose’s approval for changes to my body, so I never expect her to seek approval from me.”

Good answer.

My mother pauses. “But her hair is hideous.”

“Mother!” I shout.

“If I can’t tell you the truth, then who can?” she rebuts.

I mouth to Connor through gritted teeth,
get her away from me.

He’s trying not to laugh. This is not a laughing matter. He asks casually again, “Who gave you this information about the house? Did the realtor contact you?” 

“Olivia Barnes did. She heard from Linda, who heard from Tammy that a wealthy friend was settling back into Philly. She said that Rose knows him.”

A wealthy friend.

Back in Philly.

I know him.

My mouth falls. “Sebastian.”

Connor practically rolls his eyes at the idea. It makes the most sense. Sebastian was my best friend in prep school, and the only one that went to Princeton with me. We had a falling out our senior year when he tried to ruin my relationship with Connor and help Lily cheat on exams.

I haven’t spoken to him in three and a half years.

“I’ll call Mrs. Ross in the morning and see if it’s him,” my mother says. “He was recently hired by Patrick Nubell for their Public Relations team.” Nubell Cookies is located in Philadelphia.

I fling the light blue comforter off my body. “I hope he chokes on a Nubell Cookie and vomits all over himself.”

“Rose,” my mother says sternly.

I stand from the bed, grabbing my silk robe off a gray Queen Anne chair. “I’m not letting him get away with this. He probably heard that I wanted that house, and so he outbid us on purpose.”

“Olivia said the man’s attorney already filed the paperwork and closed the deal. There’s nothing you can do.”

“I don’t care what Olivia Barnes told you.” I put my arms through the holes of my robe. I feel disastrous. Like a tornado ripping through a city, shattering glass left and right. “I’m not waiting for you to call him in the morning.”

“We’ll talk to you tomorrow, Samantha.” Connor quickly hangs up the phone as I tie my robe and march to the door. He runs ahead of me, dressed only in navy drawstring pants, and he blocks my exit by outstretching his arms. He has too many inches on me. He is towering like he can thwart my mission. No. He’s in my way. I need through.

“Move,” I force.

“Think rationally.”

“Don’t condescend me.” I push him in the chest.

He hardly flinches.

“Richard,” I grit.

“Rose,” he retorts. “He just signed the papers. He hasn’t moved in yet. You’re going to knock on an empty house.”

“Then let me knock on an empty house, and
then
I will drive to his parent’s house and knock on
that
door. He’s either here or there. I know it.”