Fuel the Fire (Calloway Sisters 3)

I can’t remember another moment where we’ve both been so unsure about the future. It’s as though we’re standing, hand-in-hand, at the edge of an obscured forest, riddled with iron traps and predators and prey. I only cling to one certainty.

We’re entering this tragedy together.

[ 21 ]

CONNOR COBALT

I lie in bed past 11 a.m., light streaming through the windows. January 3rd of all days, I try to sleep past the morning to cut out a chunk of time. I did this last year, and the day seemed somewhat shorter.

I roll onto my side, Rose already gone. My fingers graze the blankets, absent of a second warm body. My eyes lift a fraction, and I flinch.

Lily is perched on the vanity stool beside the door, wearing a white, furry Star Wars Wampa hat, jeans, and a Superheroes & Scones T-shirt in blue block letters. This may be one of the only days she’s dressed before me. She raises a hand and gives me a sheepish smile. “Hi.”

I sit and fix my tousled hair. She’s up to something. “What are you doing, Lily?” I grip the comforter, about to climb out of bed.

“Waitwaitwait!” she slurs, panicked. “Rose said you had underwear on, but I just need to confirm before you get up.” So Rose is a part of this. Lily rambles, “It’s not so much about my sex addiction, but just respecting my sister’s husband on his birthday.” She nods resolutely—and then flushes. “Not that I wouldn’t respect you on any other day.”

“I understand, Lily.” I smile, half-forced from the mention of my twenty-seventh birthday, the word instantly deteriorating my mood. “Thank you, and don’t worry, I’m clothed.” In navy flannel pants.

She lets out a breath while I stand, and then she springs to her feet, blocking the door.

My brows rise. “Are you holding me hostage?”

“You can take a shower,” she says, not denying the fact that she’s keeping an eye on me. “In fact, you should probably wear something nice today.” She keeps nodding. Then she adds, “Just…no one wants a repeat of last year.”

Last January 3rd, they all decided to throw me a surprise party. I surprised them by flying to Ontario for the day and returning home the next morning. No one was pleased but me, and I thought they learned their lesson.

I have no problem celebrating someone else’s birthday. If it holds meaning to them, that’s fine, but my birthday holds no meaning to me. My age has always been a restraint. It bars me from advancing as fast as I’m capable. I could’ve driven at twelve. I could’ve been an informed voter at thirteen. I could’ve outwitted professors at fifteen. I don’t like celebrating my age—this irritating, unbending nuisance that parallels with time.

Lily claps her hands. “So take a shower—not with me of course. You know, by yourself. Just you. I’ll be right here. In this bedroom, not anywhere near your nakedness.” She’s fire-engine red.

It’s hard to not laugh. I head to the bathroom, already concocting an escape route. I’ll just leave out the backdoor and through the garage. “Where’s Jane?” I ask.

“With Rose.”

Maybe she’s planning to drop her off at her mother’s house. “Where are we going tonight?” I try asking straight out.

Lily opens her mouth and then shuts it. I watch as she squints at me, attempting to narrow her eyes. “You’re asking too many questions.”

I swing open the bathroom door. “What happens if I leave this house?”

“Wait, are you planning on leaving already?” She shifts nervously on her feet like she has to pee. “You can’t leave yet, and if you do, I’ll have no choice but to use physical force.” It’s comical coming from the girl wearing a fuzzy hat that has a face and horns. “And I may also have to call for backup.”

Backup?

The minute she emphasizes the word, the door blows open and Ryke and Loren saunter into my bedroom, both dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts. The handcuffs are unmistakable in Ryke’s clutch.

I still stand halfway between the bathroom and my bedroom, bottling my aggravation. “If you want me to cuff you to my bed, all you have to do is ask.”

“Hilarious,” Ryke says, “but these aren’t for me.”

Lo is half distracted by his wife, tugging the flaps of her Wampa cap and kissing her cheek. She whispers rapidly to him, accidentally gesturing to me, more obvious than stealthy.

“You’re early, darling,” I quip, pulling Lo’s attention to me. “I never cuff you before noon.”

He smiles. “Today is different, love.”

I shake my head. “No, today is the same as any other day unless the three of you try to make it something more.”

“Here’s the deal,” Lo says. “You’re going to take a shower, get dressed, and no Jedi mind-tricking anyone.” He looks to Lily at that last request and she nods in approval.

“You’re not going to tell me what Rose has planned, are you?”

“Not a chance.” If he was closer, I’m sure he would’ve patted my shoulder. His phone rings, after checking the caller ID. “It’s my marketing assistant.” Theo. “Ryke, will you—”

“I have him,” Ryke says. “Take the call.” Lo leaves with Lily, and I fixate on Ryke’s silver handcuffs again.

“Are you planning on handcuffing me to the shower?”

Ryke stares unflinchingly at me. “If I fucking have to.”

Wonderful.

I restrain the urge to roll my eyes—which is something I almost never do. I slip into the bathroom and start shedding my clothes, leaving the door wide open. I could stay in here for a while, but Ryke purposefully foils my plan, entering the bathroom with me.

He hops onto the counter, opening and closing the latches on the handcuffs with a key. “Don’t take longer than thirty fucking minutes. I don’t want to be in here anymore than you want me in here.”

Ryke is the muscle: the only one who can physically keep me in Philadelphia, which is why he has now replaced Lily as my unofficial guard.

I’m on house arrest.

On a day where I usually flee the country alone.

I step out of my boxer-briefs and near the glass shower. “I wasn’t aware that dogs can tell time.”

“Fuck you,” he says, his words harsher than usual. It can’t be for the small joke.

“Normal people don’t curse out their friends on their birthday,” I mention before slipping into the shower, warm water beating down on my tense body.

He speaks loud enough that I hear him. “And normal people don’t manipulate their friends on Christmas!”

This. “I’m not normal!” I shout through the gushing water, running my hands along my wet hair.

Through the fogged glass, I can make out Ryke’s silhouette, head shaking. “You made me think that you had the same relationship with your mom that I had with mine, just so I would fucking tell you about my childhood.”

/> He asked me: Wasn’t Christmas just your mom and you?

I replied: I’m assuming it was for you. I never said yes. I never said no. I never answered his question until he answered mine. “All you had to do was read deeper into my words,” I explain, raising my voice without shouting now. “And you would’ve realized that I never agreed with you.” I scrub shampoo in my hair.

“Sometimes I feel like you purposefully make it hard for me to trust you.”

It’s not my intention, though I know it’s a consequence of prodding in someone’s life. We’re both quiet while I finish taking a shower. After shutting off the water, I wrap a towel around my waist and step out. I head to my sink where Ryke still sits.

“I’m not telling you how many pages I can read,” he says, briefly looking up from the handcuffs to meet my eyes. He’s talking about his Christmas present. In his blank journal that he’d given me last year, I wrote passages to him in several different languages.

I squirt a line of toothpaste on my toothbrush. “I didn’t think you would.” I wrote truthful, honest messages about him, things that I admire, but he won’t be able to read the ones that he can’t understand, not without an online translator at least.

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.