Fuel the Fire (24 page)

I brush my teeth.

“You confuse the fuck out of me,” he says under his breath. He thinks I had an ulterior motive with the journal. I had none.

I rinse my mouth and spit out water. “Says the guy who makes everyone think he’s stupid when he’s smart.” He speaks different languages. He votes in every election. I bet he can quote authors. I bet he understands references that Rose and I use. He shrouds these parts of himself, as if they’re reminders of how he was raised. As the “yes kid” who did what his mother asked of him.

Study hard for me.
Yes, Mom.

Be athletic for me.
Yes, Mom.

Run track for me.
Yes, Mom.

Learn French for me.
Yes, Mom.

Stay quiet for me.
Yes, Mom.

Lie for me.
Yes, Mom.

Tell no one about me.
Yes, Mom.

The yes kid has no opinions of his own. The yes kid has no voice.

I’m not sure when Ryke finally spoke freely, but it’s clear he hates returning to that place. I can still see remnants of it in him when he struggles to open up. He’s used to being silent about specific parts of his life. 

“I don’t make anyone think anything,” he retorts. “I just don’t give a fuck about trying to prove them wrong.”

“You are who you are.” I set my toothbrush back in the holder. “At least you have five people that can put up with you.”

He flips me off and then raises the handcuffs like
it’s time, Cobalt.

I blink twice. “You’re not serious.”

“Lo said to think of it as birthday punishment.” He hops off the counter, one inch shorter than me.

“And why am I being punished exactly?” I head into my closet, picking out black slacks and a white button-down.

“I don’t fucking know,” he says from within my bedroom. “Maybe for being an arrogant prick seven days a week.” I step into my pants and begin to button my shirt as he adds, “Or how about for making a birthday celebration harder than it has to be.”

While I finish buttoning my shirt, I slip back into my room again. Ryke physically blocks the door. I try to plan an escape. I can’t run faster than Ryke. He was the captain of his track team in college. I’m not stupid enough to try.

Then again, I’d rather try to leave than do nothing and be handcuffed. “You’re punishing me for being me,” I tell him.

He holds my concentrated gaze. “At least you have five people that can put up with you.”

Five people who love me so much that they want to celebrate a mundane, pointless day in my honor. I grab my phone off my dresser and call Daisy, my cell to my ear.

“You have to follow me to the kitchen,” Ryke says. “If you fucking bolt, I have no problem tackling you.”

My brow quirks, and the phone line clicks.

“Hello there, birthday boy,” Daisy greets like she’s in the same room as me. She has to be in the basement or in the kitchen.

“Do you mind entertaining your boyfriend for ten or fifteen minutes?”

Ryke shakes his head at me, silently saying
that’s not going to work.

On the phone, Daisy winces. “I wish I could, but Rose made me promise not to help you today. She almost made it a blood oath pact…so she’d be really upset if I chose you over her. Sisters before misters.”

“Where is Rose?” I ask.

“What was that?” she feigns confusion. “You’re breaking up.” And then someone else’s voice creates a static noise in the receiver.
Lily.
“Sorry, Connor, I can’t hear you!” Daisy hangs up before I do.

 I pocket my cell, and Ryke opens the door, gesturing for me to follow him. I realize that if I want to leave this house, there’s no other alternative than physically overpowering Ryke.

Without another word, I walk behind him along the hallway. As we descend the steps, I decide it’s better to make a quick exit through the backdoor and not the front.

He leads me into the kitchen anyway, and the minute he tries to reach for me, to handcuff me to the fucking kitchen
chair
, I sprint to the backdoor.

“Connor!” Ryke yells, chasing after me. Right as my hand reaches the knob, he seizes my bicep and pulls me backwards.

I spin out of the hold easily and twist his arm behind his back, my lips close to his ear. “Tu perdras cette lutte, mon ami.”
You will lose this fight, my friend.

And then his elbow rams into my stomach, the force knocking the wind out of me. I cough roughly, enough to where he slips from my grasp. I hear the
click
before I feel the cold metal on my wrist. I jerk my arm, but I’ve been restrained to a rung on the kitchen chair. I can move enough to find a paperclip and unlock the handcuff, but not with Ryke Meadows as a bodyguard.

My jaw muscles tense more than usual. I thought his heart was too soft to inflict physical pain on me.

Ryke rests his elbows on the bar counter, lounging. “Veux-tu dire la lutte que tu viens de perdre?”
You mean the fight that
you
just lost?

He replied back in French. This is rare. If I’m going to be stuck in this gigantic kitchen to a six-person round table, I might as well make the best of it. So I switch to Italian.

“Conosco un segreto sulla tua fidanzata di cui nessuno è al corrente, nemmeno tu.”
I know a secret about your girlfriend, and no one else knows it, not even you.
It sounds mocking and slightly childish, but I’m in a strange mood.

His face darkens, concern hitting him. “Stai mentendo.”
You’re lying.

He knows Italian.

I can’t restrain my grin. I switch to German. “Ich lüge zu meinem Nutzen. Natürlich.”
I’m lying for my benefit. Of course.

His spine straightens, worry still present in his narrowed eyes. “Connor, I’m not fucking playing around anymore.”

“You don’t know German,” I realize.

His nose flares, and he shakes his head. “No. I don’t know German.”

Rose and I prefer French, but I grasp this certainty: a language Ryke won’t understand if we need privacy. Though, her German isn’t great either.

Unlike Rose, I had a penchant for linguistics at Faust. I liked words, the roots, the structure, the foundation. It’s almost like math, and uncovering one language made another easier to learn.

“Connor—”

“I lied about Daisy,” I say. “I don’t really know anything more than you do.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m going to let this go. Only because I hit you on your birthday.”

“Special privileges?” I can barely feign excitement, and I try to lift my arm, only for the chair to scrape the floor and the cuff to rattle. I notice the boxed cake mix on the counter beside a tub of chocolate icing and bottles of sprinkles. The sentiments are nice, but no one needs to make today about me. It’s unnecessary. “Can I at least have a paper and a pen?”

Ryke gives me a strange look. “What the fuck for?”

“I’m writing a love letter to my wife,” I say flatly. He still wears that look. “As a former journalism major, I assume that you understand the concept of
writing
. It’s the process by which you scrawl your name or, in your case, profanities onto a surface, in this case, paper. You do know what paper is?”

“Fuck off.”

The echo of heels sound along the hardwood from the living room, and Rose emerges through the doorway, shutting it behind her. I sweep her features instantly.

She wears a black floral kimono and a simple black cotton dress, one she’ll sometimes put on when she does her makeup. Her hair is sleeked back in an elegant pony, her lips stained deep red and eye shadow too smoky for a casual event.

She’s in the processes of dressing up for something. The moment she sees me, a smile plays at her lips.

[ 22 ]

CONNOR COBALT

“This isn’t funny, darling.” My voice sounds complacent but serious.

She walks further into the kitchen. “What’s funny is that your jet is scheduled for Hong Kong in…” She checks the oven clock. “Three hours.”

“He wants paper and a pen to write you a letter,” Ryke says, already heading for the basement door. “Can you fucking text me when you need me to come back?”

She nods, but her eyes stay on me. I watch her procure a pen and paper without question, and she slides both to me and sits across the table.

I take a seat in the chair I’m attached to. “You can join me in Hong Kong,” I tell her, “if you promise not to say the b-word. Or better yet…” I scoot closer to the table. “I can put something in your mouth so it won’t even be possible.”

Her cheeks rose, and my desire pumps blood to my cock.

What I’d give for our positions to be reversed. I raise my wrist, the one still cuffed to the rung. “Unlock me and we can make it a date.”

Rose leans back in her chair, her ankles and arms crossed. “I can’t. I have plans tonight and you running away like Cinderella will ruin them.”

“Isn’t it customary for me to receive things that I want on my birthday?”
What I don’t want: to go downtown with Rose or to go on some romantic getaway trip on
this
day.

“It is,” she agrees. “But you never take stock in birthday traditions.” She presses her red lips together, smoothing out the lipstick.

I click the pen. “Don’t move until I’m finished with this,” I order. “You can do that at least?”

She scowls, her eyes narrowing. “I can do a lot of things, Richard. Like scoop out your eyeballs with a spoon or sew your lips together with my needle and thread.”

“The latter would dissatisfy both of us, so I don’t suggest it.”

She watches me write on the paper. “Jane is down for a nap…” Her voice is distant with curiosity. “The irony is that we’re both stubborn on our birthdays, just for different reasons.”

She loves her birthday like a narcissist would—like
I
should. And I adore giving her my full, unbridled attention on August 5
^th
, pampering her every need.

I pass her the paper and pen. I scrawled three names:
Connor Cobalt on his birthday, Connor Cobalt working at his office, Connor Cobalt beating you at chess.

Her glare could kill.

My arousal spikes, my cock throbbing, and I shift my legs to try and impede an erection.

“What if I don’t answer?” she asks defiantly. Her eyes flicker to my lips.

“I’ll spank you in the middle of this fucking kitchen.”

Red heats her neck, but her yellow-green eyes pierce me more. I think, for a moment, that she wants to attempt this. She’d like me to take her across the table and play with her, but she hesitates, sliding into her head. She tries to tuck a flyaway hair that doesn’t exist and resumes her concentration on the paper.

I go to stand. The chair legs clatter as I extend my arm. Dammit. She has to spot the irritation and frustration tightening my face because she writes faster.

I pick up the wooden chair with one hand and move closer to Rose. I drop it roughly beside her. She jumps, shooting me a third glare. I stay standing, towering above her frame. Her chest rises and falls heavily, and she sets the pen down when she’s finished.

“Done,” she announces.

I read the answers over her shoulder.
KILL. KILL. KILL.

Rose rarely cheats. I bend down slightly and clasp her waist before kicking the chair out from under her. She gasps, but I swiftly push her body over the table, my pelvis digging into her ass. Her ragged breath breaks any silence.

I outstretch her hands with one of mine, my cuffed palm planted firmly on her ass. I crave to thrust against her, ceaseless and hard motions until we’re both coming.

“Connor,” she warns, her eyes darting around the kitchen. 

I place the pen in her grip so she can rewrite her answer, my lips low to her ear. “Pas de triche.”
No cheating.
I spank her hard, and she shudders, her fingers whitening around the pen.

She licks her bottom lip, her mouth partially open as she collects herself. I try to reach forward to clasp her face and turn it to me, to kiss her, but my hand is still caged. I take the moment to suck the nape of her neck, very slowly, and her body trembles in want of more. I lift my lips to her ear, deeply irritated by this fucking handcuff.

I’m not used to any restraint. “Where’s the key?” I ask her.

She cranes her head over her shoulder to look at me. “I’m not unlocking you, Richard.”

I lean forward, my dick grinding into her ass, and with her head turned, I kiss her forcefully, until a moan breaches her throat and seems to echo down mine. I part just enough to say, “You’d rather I break the chair?”

Fire swirls in her gaze. “You’re not breaking my chair.”

“
Our
chair,” I correct. We own seventy-five percent of the furniture in this house together. I chose this table since I won a round of Scrabble. She chose the kitchen appliances by beating me at Trivial Pursuit. Games solve our differences when we’re both unwilling to concede.

Her eyes ping between the chair and the handcuff. I wonder what she cares about more: the material item or her plans tonight.

I expect her to protect the chair, but instead, she turns her head back to the paper, focusing again. She won’t unlock the handcuffs, even at the cost of our furniture.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I stay in the same position and try to answer it, but my wrist jerks to a stop at my waist.
I’m breaking this fucking chair.
I have to remove my hand that lies on top of Rose’s left one and pass the phone between my palms. I catch the caller ID and my muscles tense.

SCOTT

Unfortunately, I have to answer the phone. “Hey, man,” I say, the casual greeting like salt on my tongue. Rose taps her pen on the paper, still mulling over her answers.

“Happy birthday,” Scott says, cordially enough. I spent three mind-numbing hours at his house last night. I learned three things.

1.) He drinks excessively; his favorite: pale ale.

2.) He name-drops every five minutes, and he warms easy to compliments like:
I can’t believe you know him. I would literally die to meet that guy.