Fuel the Fire (13 page)

In a slow wave, Lo’s dark, malicious eyes lift off the driveway and pin murderously on Scott. “I get it. GBA has decided to break every goddamn contract they have with Hale Co. because they didn’t get what they want. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re all planning to make our lives harder until I put my kid under a larger spotlight.”

Scott doesn’t deny their low tactics. “GBA will work with Hale Co. again when filming for the show begins.”

“You motherfucker!” Ryke storms the stairs, and Connor releases me to push him back. Ryke points hostilely over Connor’s shoulder. “Stay out of my brother’s fucking life, you sack of shit!”

I approve of Ryke’s methods, even if Connor shoots me a commanding look to stand down, to return home with him. In this moment, I choose to align myself with the antagonistic, volatile people that share the same heat in my blood.

Scott cocks his head at Ryke. “Would you rather I toyed with your life? The network would love to put you back on air. The statutory
rapist
.” Lies. Gross, repulsive lies.

Ryke lunges, and Connor pushes him forcefully off the stone steps for the umpteenth time. I begin to remove my flip-flops.

Lo barrels forward, beside me now. Connor has trouble containing the three of us. He decides to bar Ryke from the four stairs and let Loren and I go.

My ragged, heavy breath smokes the cold air, and I chuck each flip-flop at Scott’s head. He blocks one with his forearm, but the second rubber sole connects with his cheek. He nearly laughs when he rests his putrid eyes on my body.

“You look at me,” Lo grits, clamping his teeth, his jaw a razorblade.

Scott peels his eyes off my face and onto Lo. “I have a bottle of Jameson—”

“It’s your loss, coming here,” Lo cuts him short. “By the end of this, the four of us are going to bury you so quickly, you’re going to beg for a goddamn shovel.” He rises one more stair, his face in line with Scott’s. “And no one will dig out a worthless piece of shit like you.”

Loren Hale just declared war.

He doesn’t wait for Scott to flinch. He steps down and puts his hand on my shoulder, forcing me to turn around with him.

“Wait,” I begin.

“No,” Connor and Lo say in unison.

I glare, my legs trembling again. I could ball my hands into fists. “I’m not finished, Richard.”

“You’ve all said more than enough tonight.” Connor’s jaw muscles constrict, his shoulders stiff. He’s pissed, not at me, but he’s having trouble imprisoning his anger. I realize he’s bottling it in order to restrain the three of us.

Ryke walks backwards slowly. Like me, he struggles to allow Scott to stand there so smugly.

“Tell Daisy I said hi.” Scott pokes at another sensitive place for Ryke and
me.
I fling around, bare-footed on a dirty driveway with furious eyes. Connor holds me around the waist. Lo has his hand on Ryke’s shoulder.

Scott says, “I bet she would’ve fucked me if I came onto her stronger.”

Ryke is quiet, the darkest expression sweeping his face.

“No? You don’t think so?” Scott smiles again. “You might not know this, but Trent, a great friend of mine from L.A., came to New York to photograph some models. I believe Daisy just turned eighteen around then. Trent fucked her. Right in the ass.”

I’m going to maul him dead. I swear to God, he’s going to die by my raging hands.

“Fuck you, you fucking
fuck
!” Ryke yells, thrashing against Connor’s stronghold.

Scott finally closes the door, his self-satisfied smile the last view I see. The injustice of it all bleeds my brain front to back.

“He deserves to die,” I say, hot tears building again. “He deserves to go to jail and rot.”

Lo glances between the two houses. “Then let’s try to put him there.”

Connor releases Ryke again, who ends up kicking a floodlight on our walk back.

“As much as I despise Scott,” Connor says, “murder isn’t going on my resume.”

“I meant jail,” Lo says.

“I meant murder,” I cut in. I doubt I could go through with a crime of any kind, but I’ve never been one to think small. My mind pushes extremes while Connor stays in the limitations of reality. It’s why he’s not screaming until his voice dies. He finds it pointless and detrimental to his own self. He knew that yelling at Scott would do no real good, so he kept his mouth shut.

The three exceedingly tall men stare down at me, and I just now feel the dried tear-streaks, iced as the wind hits me. I wasn’t crying because I was sad. I was crying because I felt violated all over again, and this time, Jane was thrown into the mix.

“Imagine a world,” I tell them, “where our children grow up without any privacy, surrounded by people like him.”

“That won’t be our world,” Lo says adamantly.

I wait for Connor to agree. When he doesn’t, I stop in the middle of the road, a lamppost bathing us in orange light. I face my husband, halfway to our house. “You’re not going to say anything?” Tears sting. I skim his masculine features and spot the blunt, no-nonsense look that denounces any fantastical, illogical concepts that we all construct to pacify ourselves.

 I wish he would lie tonight. I wish he would make me feel like we have a chance instead of serving me the honest, bitter truth on a gold platter.

“I don’t make promises that I can’t keep,” he reminds me. “Our children will meet terrible human beings, just as everyone does. I
can’t
change the world for anyone, not even myself.”

His confession is brutal, and it hits the three of us hard. We all step back once, Ryke scratches his unshaven jaw. I inhale sharply, and Lo stares haunted at the starless sky.

“So we must assimilate,” I retort, “and blend in and
pretend
to be okay.” My chin quivers in disgust. “I hate your world.”

“It’s the world we fucking live in,” he says coldly. “It’s not
my
world. It’s everyone’s.”

Ryke begins to shake his head. “I can’t have a fucking kid,” he’s realizing.

Lo’s breath plumes, his cheeks red from the chill. “Don’t say that shit. You want a family.”

Ryke lets out a low laugh. “I’m never bringing a child into this, Lo. I fucking can’t…” He rubs his mouth and curses under his breath again.

It’s the same conclusion I’ve drawn. I can’t have more children if we can’t keep them safe.

Connor’s deep blue eyes ping from each of us, all spread in an uneven circle. “We can’t protect our children from every evil in the world, but what we can do is protect them from a specific group of people.”

“The media,” Lo answers.

Connor nods. His gaze lands on me, silently reminding me of our plan to enact this. Our six-month test.

I blame no one for my choices, but I still believe our kids deserve to be treated like human beings and not monkeys in a glass cage. They shouldn’t lose their basic human rights when they can’t even speak for themselves.

Cameramen can follow us, but they don’t need to follow them. They don’t have to.

Connor breaks the silence. “Let me remind the three of you how this works.” He points to Ryke. “You go to jail, Scott wins.” He looks to me. “You scream at him, he smiles, he wins.” I swallow this sour taste as he turns to Lo. “You sign on to a second season, he wins.”

“We do nothing just like last time,” Lo says evenly, “and he wins.”

“Let me figure it out,” Connor tells us. “I’ll take care of Scott, but for now, don’t give him what he wants. He likes inciting all of you, and tonight was practically his wet dream, so please just calm down.” Connor rubs his lips and drops his hand. “You do know what Lily calls the three of you, right?”

We stare between each other, confused. I would’ve known if she had a nickname for us. She’s
my
sister.

“She mutters it under her breath,” Connor says off our silence. “The hot-tempered triad.”

My lips twitch upward. Ryke actually laughs, which causes Lo to laugh. My little sister can be clever without realizing.

And then Connor makes this declaration, “Scott isn’t winning this time. I promise.”

I inhale strongly, mixed strangely with fear and confidence.

I promise.

Translation:
Only one of us will be left standing.

[ 12 ]

CONNOR COBALT

“Are you the reason why Rose dyed her hair back to brunette?” a cameraman asks me as I approach a Manhattan high-rise, a coffee in my left hand. With the other, I hold Jane beneath her bottom, her arm on my shoulder and eyes curiously searching the men surrounding us.

I take note that of three photographers and one cameraman, they’ve only asked about Rose’s hair color from last week, nothing about Jane.

I sip my coffee, heading straight to the revolving door.

He rephrases the question. “Did you like Rose’s new color or do you prefer her as a brunette?”

“She could be bald, and I’d still be attracted to her.” Flashes blink right before I enter the revolving door, and Jane murmurs a collection of sounds, her big blue eyes widening at me. Before Rose left for work, she laid out Jane’s outfit: a gray and blue checkered dress, ivory Dior tights, and a gray headband, her short brown hair just brushing her ears.

We imparted our sophisticated sensibilities on her since she’s too young to choose for herself, but when she’s older, she’ll pick what she likes best.

I watch her eyes, often noticing the light behind them that neither Rose nor I possess. The laughter, the innocence that I have trouble believing once existed in me. I can’t remember ever being joyful as a child. I was calculated. I was straightforward and honest.

I wasn’t light. I was the gray haze after a puff of a cigar.

Before I slip into the elevator, I toss my coffee in the trash and press the thirtieth floor. The quiet cloaks us for a moment, and Jane smiles into a laugh, clapping her hands together. Children laugh for no reason at all. They laugh because they’re alive and they’re in your arms.

It’s senseless, but this senseless moment pounds against my heart more than a sound fact.

“We’re going up, Jane,” I tell her, pointing at the ceiling.

She giggles and looks up, her headband sliding back. I adjust it and she pats her head. She says a word that’s very close to
da-da
and points up too. When she swings her head to me, I cover my eyes with my free hand.

“Where’s Jane?”

She gasps, and I remove my hand, her face breaking into the fullest, purest smile. She claps at my reappearance. I hide my eyes once more, and her gasp pulls my lips higher. “Where’s Jane?”

I drop my hand. “There she is.”

Jane giggles and touches her cheeks, discovering her own overwhelming smile that accompanies joy. I kiss her forehead, and she tries to speak but ends up babbling certain syllables and sounds again.

“One day, Jane,” I whisper, “you’ll surpass me in all ways. I hope you do.” I think about more children, a fog of a future. “I hope you all do.”

The elevator beeps.

“Now, let’s see Frederick. He has some information I need about your Aunt Daisy. How does that sound?”

Jane points at the ceiling and tries to form the word that I once said.

“Up,” I repeat, always in my usual voice. “We’re going straight now, Jane.” I point at the hallway. “Straight ahead.”

Her eyes blink in confusion.

“In time,” I smile. “You’ll understand in time.”

* * *

Frederick collapses in the leather seat adjacent to the couch, a coffee mug in hand. He dyes the gray strands of his hair by his temples, only in his early forties, his jaw square and his nose proportionate to the rest of his features, a born-and-bred New Englander. He could’ve sailed the Mayflower with Christopher Jones and jumped into a time machine to reach present day, if you’re a believer of the ridiculous.

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?”