Fuel the Fire (Calloway Sisters 3)

“In his fucking house?” Ryke shakes his head. “He’s not that stupid.”

He’s making a deal, I conclude. Our doorbell chimes throughout the house, splitting my thoughts. I didn’t see anyone traipse up our driveway. Every noise, every new change pricks my neck, setting my mood to cautious and severely alarmed.

[ 20 ]

ROSE COBALT

I dart away from the window first, rushing to answer the door.

I’m not the only one.

It’s a stampede to downstairs with Lo lifting Lily in a piggyback, pushing ahead of me. I walk quickly, close to his heels. Ryke still carries Daisy on his shoulders behind us, moving at a lackadaisical pace.

“Did someone call Mom?” Daisy asks, her fingers combing through Ryke’s thick hair.

“No,” we all say. That would be a horrible surprise—to open the door in a quick rush, finding our mother on the other side. I love her, but she already spent Christmas Eve criticizing my gift choices for Jane.

After storming down the steps, Lo stumbles over a decorative three-foot Santa Claus, causing Lily to drop off his back and try to beat me there. I’ve already passed her, speeding through the foyer.

I clasp the knob, partially out of breath. Just as I open the door, the person presses the buzzer one more time.

The young guy solidifies when he meets my hot gaze, and he stuffs his fists into his black hoodie, a blue Dalton Academy beanie shrouding his brown hair. I know exactly who this seventeen-year-old is.

“Uh…” His eyes flicker to Lily. She tries to squeeze through to greet him with open arms. I crack the door so my body wedges into the space, not allowing her exit.

“Rose,” she complains.

“I got here first,” I tell her but keep an intimidating glare on him.

Garrison clears his throat, nervous. “We haven’t met.” He outstretches his gloved hand.

“Yes, we have.” I don’t shake his hand, the ten-degree chill numbing my fingers on the door’s edge. “You and your friends sprayed red punch on my infant daughter and me with a water gun.” Before Halloween, we had a long-standing feud with the teenage neighbors. It ended with all of them being charged for burglary, all but Garrison who chose not to break into our house like his friends.

His character, in my mind, is tarnished until I see otherwise, but he works as a cashier at Superheroes & Scones, thanks to Lily’s kindness and Lo’s empathy for broken, spiteful teenagers.

“It was stupid…I’m sorry…” He chews his chapped lip for a second. “Hey is Willow here? I know she’s a distant cousin, or whatever…”

He means Loren’s half-sister, but Willow has to lie about her connections to her brother the same way that Ryke once did. No one can know that Willow’s mom is actually Lo’s birth mom. I learned that she was underage, only sixteen, when she was pregnant with Loren.

Jonathan Hale would have gone to jail for statutory rape, and he’s had his two sons and this woman cover for him for decades. Willow could live free of this humongous lie, only by returning to her hometown of Maine and staying with her mother. By choosing to be in Philadelphia and be a part of her half-brother’s life, she has to tell everyone that she’s a distant cousin to the Hales.

No one is more upset over this than Ryke—since he had to lie about his familial relationships as a teenager too.

“She’s coming around at two!” Lily answers in the background.

“Lily,” I snap, opening the door just a tad. I remember Lily saying that Willow wanted to stop by later, to not interrupt. I’d like to think we’re inclusive when it comes to blood, but she only knows us from the media. It’s why she’s chosen to live in an apartment and not in our house. I would probably insist she live here, but Lily and Lo aren’t as pushy as me.

Lily gives me a stern look that is especially comical from my loving sister. “Willow and Garrison are co-workers.”

Lo puts a hand on the door, prying it out of my grip. It hits the wall and now he can see all of Garrison. Thankfully he shoots the guy a dark glare. “A co-worker doesn’t show up on Christmas morning looking for another co-worker.”

Garrison scrapes the icy stoop with his boot. “Does this mat say welcome under here? I can’t read it with all the snow.”

“He’s funny,” I say icily.

“You’re scary, no offense.” He coughs into his glove and checks over his shoulder. “You’re going to make me invite myself in, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

His eyes ping from each of us, his breath smoking the air. “I just…I wanted to tell her that I’m…” He lets out a weak laugh, his eyes reddening. I notice an unlit cigarette between his left-hand fingers. “Never mind, it’s fucking stupid…” He turns to leave.

I snatch his hoodie, drawing him back.

“What the fuck?” He spins around and gives me a familiar look that says, I don’t even understand you. You’re kind of insane. What the fuck.

“Are you asking her to prom?” I question. “Because this is the most pathetic proposal I’ve ever seen. You need flowers, first of all.”

“I’m not asking her to prom.” His voice shakes some, his nose red from the cold. “I came to tell her that I’m leaving, and I guess to tell you too.” He nods to Lily and then briefly glances at Loren, not holding his gaze for long.

“What do you mean?” Lily asks.

That’s when I see Connor in the distance, trekking back to our house. I snatch my coat off the hook and slip on a pair of nearby boots: Daisy’s, nearly the same size as me, thankfully.

“My parents handed me my only Christmas present this morning: a white envelope,” he says bitterly. “I…they are withdrawing me from Dalton and sending me to this boarding school for ‘proper guidance’ to finish my senior year.”

I pass Garrison on the landing, my hand freezing as I grip the railing, careful not to slip on the icy steps.

“Where is it?” Lily asks.

I head down the driveway, Garrison’s voice drifting in the background. “Upstate New York,” he says, “Faust Boarding School for Young Boys.”

A chill nips my spine. I approach Connor at a hurried speed, meeting him at the mailbox, where he has his hands in his coat pockets, unsurprised by my sudden appearance. He stands tall, unconcerned and unafraid of everything, despite just speaking to that detestable rodent.

“You went into the lion’s den,” I say, my throat raw from more than just the cold.

Connor shakes his head. “We’re the lions, Rose. Our den is right behind you.”

My nose flares. He’s saying that we’re stronger and better than Scott, but I can’t move past this. “What deal did you just make?” This—we did not agree upon. We did not discuss. We did not—

“None.”

He pops my thoughts. “You gave him road kill.”

His lips rise in a humored grin. “I’m not Lo.”

I should know what he did. He’s my husband, but I can’t see the answer that’s literally standing right in front of me. Snow begins to fall again, dusting our hair with flakes and wetting my nose and cheeks. I have to ask outright.

“What’d you do?”

“I gave him a bottle of expensive wine.”

My brows tighten. “You drugged him?”

His grin widens. “Rose, darling, come back to Earth.”

I perch my hands on my hips, eyes narrowed. “You just gave him a bottle of wine? What are you friends now…” My face falls. “No, Connor.” This is what he does. He fakes friendships and then slices them at the knees when he has no more use for them. “He’ll never believe you’re his friend.”

He holds my cold hand. “Scott isn’t smart. He’s self-righteous and irritating. He can be manipulated. I never had the chance to do this before, not in the constraints of the reality show, but I do now.”

“And you can just bear to make nice to him?” Hot tears try to well, impassioned and disgusted by the mere idea.

Connor’s hand rises to my fac

e, his blue eyes assured but calm, so calm to my fervor. I want him to crack, to unleash his fury and appease my insides that begin to roil, but he can’t…or else we lose.

“My skin is crawling,” I shake. He probably shared fake laughter with Scott and even complimented him.

“Then you know how mine feels.” He seems so put-together, but it’s all inside—the things I can’t see, deep down, his disgust at having to befriend him.

“Can you stomach this?” I ask.

He nods once. “It’s our best chance.” And then he recites, “‘The worst is not. So long as we can say, this is the worst.’”

“King Lear.” Shakespeare. I try to push him off. “You just quoted a tragedy, Richard.”

He refuses to let me go, holding me closer. “I need you,” he suddenly says.

I freeze. “What?”

His gaze bores down on me. “I need you to keep looking at me like you’re going to burn a hole through my heart, and I need you to tell me that you love the real me. Every day, I need you, Rose. That’s how I’m going to stomach this.”

Without hesitation, I say, “Bien sûr.” Of course.