Fuel the Fire (46 page)

“Where were you?!” Connor shouts at Vic without letting go of me. “You were supposed to be right behind her.”

“I got stuck in the crowds.”

Connor’s jaw muscle noticeably contracts. “Before we leave, you need to have a path cleared for us, and I’m calling more security to help you since you can’t manage on your own.”

He nods and says a few apologies to both of us.

At this, I wake up.
Everyone is safe.
That’s what matters.

“Let’s go, Connor,” I tell him, and his hand falls to my shoulder, partially guiding me into the pediatrician’s office. My steps still feel a little dazed, but as soon as we enter the empty waiting room, I break apart from him and sit on a chair by a stack of magazines, crossing my ankles.

I feel safer now that we’re here. Connor goes to sign Jane in at the receptionist’s desk.

My temple throbs and scalds. A gust of cold air blows through the vent and stings my wound. I ignore the pain and set Jane on my thighs, tucking the blanket around her. She immediately tugs at my necklace…and then, of course, my hair.

I wince. “No, don’t touch Mommy’s hair.” I peel her fingers from the strands and procure her stuffed lion out of my purse. My brain is somewhat fogged, barely believing that my fragile, delicate child went through that
hell
. I can’t and won’t lock her in a tower and remove her from society, just because no one can behave properly.

There has to be boundaries…because this is too much for any kid to live through.

“Lion…” she says clearly, the rest of her words unintelligible and accompanied by spittle. I wipe her mouth with the corner of the blanket.

My eyes burn. “I hope you never question how much I love you, Jane.”

She blinks at me and then smiles, replying with a variety of noises that I accept as
I will always love you, Mommy.
Even if that’s not the case—I don’t really care. It’s what I believe it is. And in this moment, I believe she will never doubt my love.

When I look up, I notice the receptionist passing an item to Connor, and his lips form a
thank you
before returning to me.

“Is the doctor ready?” I ask. We’re late, but not by much.

“They said five minutes and the nurse will weigh her.” He sits beside me, a foreign look in his eyes. “Turn your head to me, darling.”

“What are you feeling?” I wonder, just as I rotate to face him.

He gently brushes my hair back and reaches into my purse for a band, tying my hair off into a low pony. “Concern,” he says.

It must be on another level of existence then, so abundant that it darkens his blue eyes. “I did what I had to,” I tell him. I hone in on a line of crooked chairs by the wall behind Connor, a television mounted in the corner. Out of eight chairs, three are too far forward, two tilted too far to the left—it’s irritating. Can no one fix those chairs?

“Rose, look at me,” Connor says.

“This waiting room is a mess.” I turn my head to find a kiddie chair overturned and on its side. I itch to set it upright, and the longer it stays in disorder, the more my ribs bind my lungs.

Connor pinches my chin, forcing my gaze back to his, and the severity in his features takes my breath. “Concentrate on me,
please
,” he forces the word. “You’re in complete control with me. You’re in the neatest room you’ve ever been in with the smartest man you’ve ever seen, and there is
nothing
we can’t do. Repeat it.”

I snort and let out a deeper breath at the same time. “You would want me to repeat that in its entirety, just to stroke your ego.” I hang onto the first line though.
You’re in complete control with me.

I exhale another short breath. When my eyes flit up to his, I expect him to smile, to banter back, but he’s not doing either.

I notice the white gauze in his hand, the mysterious item that the receptionist gave him. He cups one side of my face, holding me still.

You’re in complete control with me.

“Can you scoot closer?” I actually ask. I ease more when I can sense his stoic, unbending presence, coming into contact with mine. He moves as far as the armrests of the chairs will allow, his other hand on my neck for a second or two while I clutch Jane.

I inhale the calmness of Connor, the quietness of the room, and I don’t look around this time. I just focus on him.

“I’m going to apply pressure to your temple,” he says softly. “Just keep taking deep breaths.” With this, he presses the gauze to the raw skin, and I inhale sharply.

Oh God.
That fucking hurts.

I hold Jane with one arm and grip Connor’s bicep with the other. He checks beneath the gauze, and beneath his fortitude, I spot the glimmer of a pained reaction, lines creasing his forehead.

“It’s bleeding?” I question. He wouldn’t have
that
response unless there was blood. “Let me see.” He reaches for my purse. He’s literally the only man I will let dig through it, and it’s not long before he finds my compact mirror, holding it up to me.

Slowly, I inspect the damage. Blood already seeps through the gauze. Connor gradually removes it. Right by my temple hairline, two quarter-sized clumps are missing, left only by a reddened, scalped mess. And as awful as it looks and for however long it’ll take to heal, I know I’d do it again.

Connor watches me carefully, most likely worried I’ll lose sleep over hair, something I’ve always nurtured like a child, but it’s not my child. It’s just a building block that creates my orderly life, and even though it feels like knocking one out of place knocks the whole tower, I
have
to keep reminding myself that I’m
in
control.

This doesn’t destroy everything. What’s important is that she’s safe.

You’re in complete control with me.

“Hair grows back,” I tell him.

Connor nods. “And you can style your hair to cover it if you need to.” The thought should comfort me, but I realize something…

“No,” I tell him as he snaps the mirror closed. “
Everyone
needs to see, then maybe they’ll stop putting Jane in harm’s way.”

He kisses my forehead and murmurs French, too inaudible for my thumping brain to translate. He kisses Jane’s head next, and she smiles, at peace in the quiet waiting room.

Connor returns the gauze to my temple, caring for my war wound. I want to lessen the tension that pools between us. I’d like to travel towards a place where he grins arrogantly, and I roll my eyes, trying desperately to suppress a smile.

I raise my chin a little, showing him that I’m better, and I quiz him, “Which sixteenth century scientist is often said to have ‘stopped the sun and moved the earth?’ You have thirty seconds, same stakes.” I’ll have to ignore him for twenty-four hours if he answers incorrectly.

I know he knows this one though.

He removes the gauze again, nearly all red, and my stomach overturns. He folds it to find a white space (there is none) but he carefully presses it back anyway. I catch anger, frustration, hurt in his eyes—a whirlpool of emotions that he rarely ever expresses so outwardly.

“Richard,” I snap, wanting him to not worry and to focus on my quiz. “Ten seconds.”

“Galileo,” he answers…incorrectly.

My mouth falls. “What?” He knew this one. I
knew
that he knew this one. I wouldn’t have tried to trick him, not now.

His eyes tighten in a cringe. “It’s Copernicus.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head once. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Clearly,” I mutter. Wait…I can’t speak to him now? Can I? I bite my gums. “Maybe there can be a stipulation or exception for…overwhelming events.” I grimace and glare at the ceiling even as the words leave my lips.

Once we make an exception as big as
you don’t lose when you’re supposed to lose
, none of our stakes hold the same weight. The games aren’t taken as seriously.

His brows rise. “You know we can’t. What’s a realistic amendment: you begin ignoring me when we’re in the limo again, safely on our way home.”

I nod in agreement, and my lips lift at a thought. “Are you prepared to be ignored by me?” I’ve done it before, when we’re fighting about philosophy or scientific theories, and it drives him mad. Not a lot unnerves Connor, but the silent treatment always does.

“It’s my least favorite kind of torture.”

“You have a favorite kind of torture?” I question.

He smiles. “Are you going to be able to ignore me, darling?”

I shoot him a glare. “Please, I already tune out half of what you say.” I’m not really being truthful. I listen to almost every word he speaks, unless I cover his mouth with my hand and bar them from exiting.

“Such lies,” he tells me, his lips continuing to curve upward. “You’re forgetting how much we talk and text and speak to each other in a twenty-four-hour period.”

Am I?

“Even when you claimed we were broken up in college, we still called each other,” he reminds me.

We did. Every day. “Let me gloat at the image of you pouting for at least
five minutes
before you claim that I’ll be pouting too.”

He almost grins fully. “We’ll see.”

Yes we will.

[ 42 ]

ROSE COBALT

Only four hours since arriving home and I keep unlocking my phone, a heartbeat away from texting Connor a Fuck, Marry, Kill game or a random thought that tosses around my brain.

It turns out his punishment is an annoying consequence for both of us. So he was right thinking it would be. I’m hiding my distress as best I can.

If he sees it, he’ll just gloat.

And he’s supposed to be the
loser
here, not me.

Losers can’t gloat. This is my law.

“We should be able to tag you out with Connor,” Lo says with a bitter half-smile. He camps out on the bar stool,
watching
me roll pizza dough on the kitchen counter. Flour plumes each time I use the rolling pin, and I simultaneously wipe down my mess and flatten the dough. It has taken me an excruciatingly long time, but my mood can only handle clean, tidy places right now.

It’s pizza night, and we drew three names out of a hat for the cooks. Unfortunately, I was paired with Loren and his older brother, neither of my sisters to keep me company.

And no one was more displeased to see my name than me. Except maybe Loren.

“Tag Connor in?” I snap. “I’m sorry, am I wrestling you, Loren?”

“Just being five feet across from you is like enduring a backbreaker, so yeah, it feels like it.” He gives me another dry smile and then sips a Fizz Life. His daggered eyes almost soften when they hone in on my temple, bandaged with gauze.

“You’d make more progress if you stared at the pepperoni and not my face.”

He pretends to take interest in slicing the pepperoni, only
two
pieces on his cutting board.

“You don’t want to trade in Connor today,” Ryke tells his brother, chopping the bell peppers on the other side of the sink. “He’s moody as fuck. I passed him in the hallway, and before I even opened my mouth, he told me to go bark to my owner.”

Loren eats a pepperoni. We’re never going to finish this pizza. “Huh,” he says. “I thought Connor was your owner.”

Ryke tosses a bell pepper at him. God, no. I don’t want to find random bits of food strewn along the floorboards.

“I’m serious,” Lo says.

“Yeah, me fucking too. I don’t know what’s up with him…besides the shit storm.”
The shit storm.
That’s what we’ve officially begun calling this round of media invasiveness.

Loren points at my face. “Could be that his wife’s all battered and he wasn’t able to stop it from happening.”

I jab the rolling pin in Lo’s direction. “It’s
not
Connor’s fault. He knows this.” My husband thinks logically and he’d know that there was no conceivable way he could’ve changed the outcome. I consider it fate. He considers it a terrible circumstance, dictated by the people surrounding me.

“Regardless, he’s probably still pissed at the paparazzi,” Lo tells me.

I don’t doubt that. I caught him on the phone in passing, and he seemed vexed. I suppose he’s calling extra security and other avenues to lessen our risk when we step outside.

We both get cooped up indoors for too long. Not like Daisy and Ryke who seek adventure through terrifying activities. Remove working at an office, and I like shopping, getting manicures, fine dining, and any reason to dress elegantly. Connor is always on the go with me, and when we slow down, it’s usually to spend more time with our daughter, my sisters, Loren and Ryke.

Connor and I have managed to keep our lifestyles intact, even with the media, but it’s becoming harder for us now. Taking our daughter to the pediatrician shouldn’t be a petrifying experience. And that’s
before
we even step through the fucking doors.

Ryke licks his finger and then touches another green bell pepper.

My eyes widen in horror. “Ryke!”

“What?” He looks around. “What happened?” He notices my glare. “What the fuck did
I
do?”

“Wash your hands,” I say. He touches my little sister with
those
hands.
Don’t think about where they travel to and from, Rose.
I shudder.

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest like Loren would have. Since he’s being nice and actually washing his hands beneath the faucet, I decide to shed light on their discussion.

“Connor is moody because I’m ignoring him,” I explain.

Loren frowns. “Why are you ignoring him?”

I wipe the counter. “He lost a quiz.”

Ryke shuts the faucet, both of them quiet.

“Wait, that’s it?” Loren gapes. “You’re serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” I train my fiery eyes on him.

“You look like you have to take a shit.”

I growl. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re confusing,” he retorts. “I thought you two were the mature ones out of the six of us, and here you are, playing the
silent treatment
like ten year olds.” He laughs. “I think I’ve aged up in power rankings.”