Fuel the Fire Page 6

  I sense him hardening even more. “I’d fuck you on goat’s blood. I’d never cut off your tongue.”

  “Would you share me?” It coils my muscles and stomach, my fingers curling even more around the counter, the idea of me being passed between hands. I only want to be in his clutch, but the concept of being so completely his, in the face of other men, stirs forbidden parts of me.

  “I’ve never been good at sharing,” he tells me deeply. “Not accomplishments or titles, and I’d certainly never want to share you.” I can feel him twisting my hair and clipping the strands on top of my head.

  I open my eyes now, the cream evenly applied over every lock, nothing reaching beyond my hairline. The twisted mass of developer and hair weighs heavy on my head, but I keep my neck straight, able to support it fine.

  “Thirty minutes,” he tells me. “And then I’ll wash your hair.” He removes his grip from my waist and snaps off the sodden glove in the empty plastic bowl. His arms weave around my body to reach the sink, and he cages me here while he washes his hands. I take note of the time on his watch.

  He’s still staring at me, like he’s not finished playing with me yet.

  I’m not done talking. “What about ménage à trois?” I test him, unblinking and hardly wavering from this question.

  I wonder if he’s imagining this twisted picture of another man together with us. After he shuts off the faucet and dries his hands with a towel, he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling my back against his chest so hard that I ache between my legs and barely maintain grasp of the counter’s edge.

  I keep my head away from him, avoiding a mess of bleach. Even so, his voice sounds close to my ear. “This man wouldn’t stand a chance in bed with us. I’d never let him near you, not to touch you and never to fuck you.” His fingers make their way up the soft flesh of my thighs, cupping me, his thumb teasing me in circular motions against the lace of my panties.

  My chest rises and falls heavily. “What if he takes me from the front?” My voice is layered with ice.

  Connor swiftly spins me around now, my back digging into the lip of the counter, his hand lifting one of my legs around his waist, his erection in line with my panties. He pushes against me, the force at break-neck speed in my mind, the force so hard that I could beg aloud to be naked with him.

  I don’t though. My mind orients itself quickly enough. I hang onto his muscular biceps, and his lips near my ear as he whispers, “I’d rotate you.” He pushes my ass up, like he wants to fuck me this way, right now, repeatedly. Over and over. “Comme ça.” Like this.

  I’m so unbelievably wet.

  I grab his wrist to stop his movement. “Now he can snap off my bra,” I combat, able to meet his gaze. “You failed.”

  Those two words cause his jaw to tic, so subtly that I almost miss it. Without moving, he says, “I’d possess you in bed, Rose, so much that any other man would leave in misery.” I believe him. “No satisfaction, no release.” He grazes me with his eyes, my breasts nearly popping a few buttons with my deep breaths. “Balls aching, dick begging—”

  Someone knocks at the door. “If you’re playing Scrabble in the bathroom, you two are at a new level of weird,” Loren says.

  “Drop me,” I whisper to Connor, smacking his arm.

  He doesn’t, not yet. “We’ll be ready to head out in an hour,” he tells Lo.

  We’re all going to the nearest rock climbing gym, as a way of celebrating Ryke before he undergoes surgery after Christmas, the holiday already in two weeks. The gym is also where Walter Aimes is supposed to take photos of us, unbeknownst to my sisters and their significant others.

  Lo speaks through the wooden door. “Willow is here early to babysit so we’re going now.”

  My eyes widen in horror. Now. My hair. I reach out, subconsciously about to touch my head. Connor rapidly releases my leg and seizes my wrists, right before my palms nearly plant on the goopy, bleachy mess.

  My heart is in my throat. “I almost…”

  “You didn’t,” he says, his smile dimmed to seriousness. I’ve become more than a tad bit obsessive-compulsive since my pregnancy and Jane’s birth. High-stress situations just puncture little parts of me, and I fixate on things I shouldn’t.

  “Open up.” Loren knocks on the door again. “What is that smell?” He pauses. “Is that bleach?” I hate Loren Hale’s nose. I want to murder that too.

  Connor mouths to me, stay calm.

  “I’m always calm,” I snap, the statement clearly false. It’s by far the worst retort I’ve used all week.

  His lips still curve upward as he walks backwards to the door. “Your acting needs work, darling.”

  True.

  In seconds, my acting is about to be put to the test again. I’d pray to a higher being to give me strength and success, but I keep hearing Connor’s voice in my head that says: I’m the only person you should pray to. His egomania is clouding my judgment and my sanity.

  But strangely I’m still glad he’s on my team.

  I can’t do this alone.

  [ 6 ]

  CONNOR COBALT

  Lo puts his hand on the bathroom door, opening it wider to see all of Rose. “Jesus Christ.” He scrutinizes her hair and the products on the counter. “Are you having a quarter-life crisis?”

  “I wanted a change,” Rose snaps in defense. Beneath the white developer and bleach mixture, her hair begins to turn a burnt orange color—some strands even lighter.

  “So you thought blondes have more fun?” Lo walks further into the bathroom with me.

  “No,” Rose snaps. “I can castrate you equally as a brunette as I can a blonde.” She gives him a wry smile.

  He returns one. “Your idea of fun is fucked up.”

  Two more people suddenly emerge in the doorway. Lily pants, out of breath, in leggings and a plain black baggy shirt. Daisy is next, in similar workout clothes, only a shorter top that says wild at heart and significantly less wheezing.

  Lily holds a stitch in her side. “Are you two almost ready? The bodyguards are waiting and getting kinda grumpy.” Before she walks forward, her eyes grow big at Rose’s hair. “Whaaa…”

  Daisy puts her hands to her mouth, eyes growing to saucers.

  “She’s…” Lily can’t find the words.

  Lo helps her. “Lost her mind.”

  “She’s blonde,” Lily manages to say, all on her own.

  “Wow,” Daisy mutters, still in shock.

  Lo pulls Lily into his chest for a hug, and he even kisses her cheek. She’s too concentrated on Rose to even notice, which means this is a larger ordeal for the Calloway sisters than I thought it’d be.

  “Hair color is temporary,” I say. “It can always be changed.” I just need this to go smoothly—for the sake of Moffy and Jane.

  “But Rose has never dyed her hair before,” Daisy explains what I already know.

  “Rose,” Lily starts, “you said you’d skin a cat before you became blonde.”

  She rotates, a chill in her eyes. “Maybe I have.” Her voice is flat and cold, but it isn’t her best acting.

  “Okay, you’re scaring me,” Lily says. “I never thought this would happen.” Her voice cracks.

  Lo frowns and looks down at his wife. “Are you crying?”

  Lily wipes her eyes.

  Rose is trying not to cry.

  Daisy looks upset.

  I didn’t predict this. I couldn’t have.

  “It’s just,” Lily begins, “you can count on so few things in life and one of them is Rose’s hair.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Lo groans.

  “It’s true,” Daisy nods.

  I never knew her hair was so special to her sisters. “She wanted to change it,” I tell them. “Can you all be supportive of this?”

  Lily frowns in deeper confusion. “You really wanted to change your hair, Rose?”

  Daisy keeps shaking her head. “This doesn’t feel right, does it?”

  Rose takes a sharper bre
ath and pulls back her shoulders, getting in the game. “Call it what you want,” she replies, “a quarter-life crisis or a change of scenery—I just felt impulsive and destructive and…” Her nose flares. She lifts her chin. “And I did what I wanted. So there.” If we were alone, I would fuck her.

  “So there?” Lo gives her another look like her body has been hijacked by fictional creatures. “Didn’t you used to brush your hair three-hundred times a day?”

  “I can still brush my hair even if it’s blonde, and the absurd frequency is a rumor that one of you”—she points between Daisy and Lily—“started behind my back.”

  Lily crinkles her nose. “Might’ve been me.”

  Daisy stares up at the ceiling. “Or me.”

  “And I think we said one-hundred brush strokes, didn’t we?” Lily asks Daisy and mouths, when was this?

  Daisy shrugs and shakes her head. “New Year’s?” she whispers.

  Rose snaps her fingers repeatedly. “Concentrate.”

  Lily and Daisy spin back to her sister, both of them standing taller like her minions or soldiers, when in fact they’re her adoring, admiring little sisters. I can see, between them, why Rose would want this for Jane. I want it for her too, someday. It’s what we’re fighting for in the end.

  “I am blonde now,” Rose says proudly. “Deal with it.”

  My lips rise.

  “Queen Rose has spoken,” Lo banters.

  “I’m going to wash Rose’s hair and then we can head out,” I announce to the room.

  Lily nods, stealing one more look at Rose before she departs. Daisy follows suit.

  Loren reaches the doorway but doesn’t leave. Instead, someone else walks in. I rub my mouth, frustration pulling my brows. When I meet Rose’s eyes, she’s smiling at me, the smug kind of smile that I always have for her. She’s gloating at my distress.

  I nearly turn towards the counter, my erection worsening. When I need one fucking second, I lose five more. Time is rarely on my side.

  Ryke walks further into the bathroom, holding lime-green Nikes by the neon blue laces. He stops short, jaw unhinging at the sight of Rose. “What the fuck.”

  Rose crosses her arms, tightening the shirt which unfortunately pops a few of her buttons, unbeknownst to her. I restrain myself from pinching the bridge of my nose.

  I motion between the two of them. “Rose has decided to dye her hair. Of the events we’ve all shared together, this is really mundane.”

  “It’s fucking weird,” Ryke mutters, his gaze lingering on her breasts.

  After Rose’s warped image of me sharing her with another man, one I don’t celebrate at all, I’m not really in the mood for a wandering male gaze. I almost walk in front of her, which would piss her off more than it would help any situation.

  Lo smacks the back of his brother’s head before I move a muscle.

  “Fucking A, let me process this,” Ryke says, rubbing beneath his hair.

  “Process what?” I ask. “Rose’s hair or her breasts. You do know that women have them, right? Or are you just now figuring out basic human anatomy?”

  Ryke flips me off.

  “Oh good, he knows where his fingers are,” I banter. Rose begins to button her shirt.

  “Fuck you,” he curses.

  “No, fuck you.” My facial muscles tighten. Definitely, not in the mood.

  Ryke raises his hands now, understanding that I’m not playing around. “Look, I don’t fucking care what anyone does to their hair. I just wanted to give these to Rose.” He nods to her. “I know you won’t rent rock climbing shoes or wear any kind of footwear that’s been previously used, but Daisy had an extra pair. I figure she’s your sister, so it might be different. She said you two were about the same size.” He still has one of the shoelaces looped on his finger.

  They’re not rock climbing shoes, but they’re slender sneakers with what looks like good tread, a decent alternative.

  Rose drills a hole in them, like they’ve offended her. “What are those?”

  I answer first, “Sneakers. Tennis shoes. Running shoes. There are a plethora of useless names for them in my opinion.”

  When her eyes ping to me, they narrow. And I grin, any sort of annoyance starting to seep into better sentiments that I enjoy.

  “Your opinions are useless,” she retorts.

  “And your opinions are biased. Do you want to keep going?”

  Lo cuts in, “Please don’t.”

  It takes Rose an extended moment to detach her gaze from mine, fixing it on Ryke. “You can leave those things by the door.”

  Lo elbows Ryke’s arm. “You’re a common serf in their kingdom, bro. Don’t take it too personally.”

  Rose frowns. “You know what serf means?”

  Lo rolls his eyes. “Jesus, I’m not an idiot. I may’ve been expelled from college, but I can count to one-hundred and multiply and divide too.”

  “A borderline genius,” I quip.

  Lo winks. “I knew all this time you were scared I’d beat you.”

  “You have a way with words,” I say honestly. “Most men should be frightened of you.” I’m not most men, but this is the truth. Once he has confidence in himself, he should be unstoppable.

  Lo digests my statement with a nod, hearing my sincerity.

  Ryke brings us back to the point. “You have to wear these, Rose. I’ll put them right here, but you can’t show up in the car or at the gym with high heels on.”

  Rose sighs heavily. “What if—”

  “No,” Ryke forces.

  Rose glares. “You suck.”

  “How old are you?” Lo interjects.

  Rose flips him off.

  I grin. “I’m the oldest here—”

  I can’t even finish my statement before Rose interjects, “I’m twenty-six too.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Ryke sets the Nikes by the door.

  We all look to Lo, who’s just twenty-five “What?” he snaps. “Do you three have some sort of older kid’s club.” Slightly, yes. We talk about Lo and Lily and Daisy all the time. Right now, no one says anything, and he glowers. “I was joking.”

  “I’ll wear the sneakers,” Rose diverts the conversation.

  “Thank you.” Ryke taps the door frame on his way out.

  Lo walks backwards as he begins to leave. “Ten minutes? Will you be ready then?”

  I need more than that, but clearly we’ve lost time. “Fifteen,” I amend. “We’ll meet you downstairs.”

  Lo nods, and as he disappears into the master bedroom, I lock the door behind him.

  * * *

  Rose immediately spins towards the sink, drumming her nails on the marble counter. I come up behind her, the pungent bleach watering her eyes. I suspect it burns her scalp, but she won’t complain of pain until she has third degree burns.

  While I tower above her, inspecting her hair with sight alone, she says, “Rape me.”

  I set a hand on the counter, beside her waist, my confusion pushing me towards her when it should do the opposite. Her eyes are blazing through the mirror. I’m not sure I heard her correctly. I say, “Parlez clairement.” Speak clearly.

  She licks her red lips. “Rate me,” she says slowly, “on my performance.”

  That sounds more like Rose. “I give you a B minus. You struggled with your sisters.”

  She crosses her arms, popping buttons on her shirt again, no bra, and this time, I notice her nipples hardening. My cock digs closer to her ass. She stiffens, her collarbones protruding.

  Her cold voice never changes temperatures. “Well, I give you an F.” As expected.

  She keeps flunking me today—with challenges that I’m certain I’d win, given any circumstance. “Are you trying to incite me, darling?” That’s usually my job.

  “I speak the truth.”

  She sounds like me. Those are my words. Swiftly, I spread her legs open with my feet, breaking them apart. She chokes on a pleasured noise, and I grip her ass beneath the button-down, my lips to
her ear. “You’re plagiarizing me now.”

  That one comment riles her, not in the way that I like. She spins on me, forcing her ass out of my clutch. Her back digs into the counter. I cage my arms around her, slyly turning on the faucet.

  “So now you have a monopoly on truths?” She rests her palms flat on my bare chest as a warning, enraged. “I never plagiarize. You can’t copyright facts.”

  This is all true, ironically. “Why did I fail?” I ask.

  She raises her hand, to scratch at her hair, and I catch her wrist right before she succeeds. She exhales shortly and says, “You cursed Ryke out for real. You broke character, Connor.”

  It’s not like that directly hurt our ploy. “I was me,” I state. That was a real reaction, an emotional one, she’s saying.

  “You can’t be you,” she reminds me. “That’s the point of this. We play up the dramatics, be fodder for the media, be salacious and scandalous for popularity. We’re something else. You taught me this.”

  You taught me this. She taught me how to be real. I taught her how to be fake.

  I wish I could take pride in this part, but I have none. I don’t want to discuss it anymore. “Lean over,” I say. “Your eyes are watering.”

  She rotates back around, leaning over and dipping her head into the sink’s basin, and without stepping away from her, I put on a new plastic glove, using one hand to wash her hair. I massage her scalp as I rinse the bleach. She tries to close her legs, but I keep my foot inside of hers, forcing them apart.

  Her eyelids flutter open.

  “Keep your eyes closed,” I command, worried that bleach and water will run in them.

  She reluctantly shuts them again. “My neck hurts.” She tries shifting her shoulders.

  With my free hand, I adjust her, turning her head a fraction, so she isn’t staring straight at the sink. “Better?”

  “Mmmh.” She relaxes into the head message. With the bleach almost gone, I notice the color of her hair isn’t blonde—not yet at least. We needed to let it set longer than we had, and the strands are tawny, the color of rust.

  Rose will call it orange.

  She’s beautiful no matter what color hair, no matter if she had none, but she’ll be pissed. I just need her hair to smell good, so she won’t feel uncomfortable. When the bleach is rinsed, I discard the glove and lather shampoo along her scalp, her body loosening even more.