Fuel the Fire (Calloway Sisters 3)

He literally couldn’t deck me unless it helped me. “How kind of you.” I settle on my end of the bed.

“Just say the word, Cobalt, and I’ll fucking punch you again.” He turns off his lights.

I arch a brow. “And what word is that—woof?”

“Fuck off.” His voice is lighter than before.

My lips rise and before I turn off my lamp, I feel pressed to say one more thing. He deserves this answer in its entirety. “During Christmas, I told you that I didn’t celebrate Christmas because my mother didn’t, but I never mentioned that I’d come to spend them at Faust.”

He shifts onto his back, brows furrowing in confusion and surprise. “How many guys spent holidays there?”

“Not many, and to you it seems lonely—”

“How is that not fucking lonely?”

“I spent my time running towards goals and ambitions. I never wasted a moment to consider the loneliness around me, and to this day, all I see are the things I achieved, not the things I lost. So I can’t relate to you, no matter if I took more time to try.”

Ryke stares off, thinking about this for a second, and then he laughs in realization. “We must be oil and water.”

I smile. “I assume I’m water in this scenario.”

Ryke gives me the middle finger before he turns on his side again and mumbles, “Night, Cobalt.”

With this, I shut off my lamp, blanketing us in darkness.

* * *

Ten minutes into sleep, my phone buzzes beside me. I squint at the illuminated screen and prop my body on an elbow.

Daisy had low segdeive does feed know this?!?$4 – Rose

It’s one of the worst drunk texts I’ve ever had to decipher from my wife. I sit up against the headboard as another messages comes in.

It takes her a long time to organs too did you knew – Rose

“What is it?” Ryke asks, sitting up with me. His voice isn’t groggy since we shut off the lights only minutes ago.

“Rose is drunk texting me about Daisy.” I can barely make sense of the first one, but the second one sounds like she’s discussing orgasms. I pass the phone to Ryke.

He pinches the bridge of his nose the moment he reads them.

“Translate,” I say, the word foreign from my lips.

“Daisy has a low sex drive.” He tosses the phone back to me, about to go back to sleep.

With better context, I translate the text to: Daisy has a low sex drive, does Frederick know this? The girls must still be talking right now, and Rose is concerned that Frederick doesn’t have all this information that’s relevant to her health.

“Has she told her therapist?” I ask him.

He scrunches the pillow beneath his head. “Yeah.”

I wonder if he’s had an idea what’s wrong with Daisy. “What do you know?”

“I’m not discussing my fucking girlfriend with you.” He rolls on his side, back towards me.

“She suffers from depression,” I guess. Her low sex drive and struggle to orgasm either points to this or to the effects of the medication she’s been taking. Maybe it’s a combination of both.

He turns back to me, and I can see his brows furrowing, even in the dark. “Frederick told you?”

“No,” I say. “I just guessed.”

He rakes a hand through his hair and then shifts to his back, staring at the ceiling. “I think I’ve always known, and so has she—we just didn’t ever call it that out loud.” He lets out a heavy breath. “I just want her to feel happiness every fucking minute of her life, and each time I wake up, it’s further out of reach.”

“You just have to be patient and kind,” I say calmly. “Do what you do now, and it’ll be enough, even when it doesn’t seem that way.” I usually supply everyone with the right words, but there are no right ones in this instance. He understands that he can’t fix Daisy, and all he has to give is himself, to be there throughout her life.

He nods and then rolls onto his side again, away from me. “Can you please stop fucking talking to me now?”

I slide back down and shut off my phone.

I value having details, but I never took into account the emotion behind them.

[ 34 ]

CONNOR COBALT

I squat on the other side of the kitchen, four towers of wooden blocks separating the distance from the two children and me.

“Daddy!” Jane calls, her blue eyes pinging inquisitively from each colored tower: red, blue, yellow, and green.

“Knock over the blocks,” I encourage, waving both kids towards me. I can barely piece apart her next words, unintelligible noises that she shares with Maximoff. The little boy points to the red tower, as though constructing a plan with Jane.

On this particular Tuesday afternoon, I’m the designated nanny, and even though I’m swamped with paperwork from Cobalt Inc., I gladly use this day to play with my daughter and nephew. I’m always at the mercy of time, but I try not to let it steal precious, rare moments from me.

I set my knee on the floorboards. “Do you need me to show you?”

Jane looks curiously at me. I’m not sure she understands half of what I ask, but that never stops me from speaking to her like she does, like she will, one day.

I’m about to stand, but Moffy makes the first step. Steadier on two feet than Jane, he rushes out and charges into the red tower. He laughs as the blocks scatter the floor around him.

“Nice work, Moffy,” I congratulate, my lips upturning. “Do you know what color those blocks are?” He picks up one of the wooden ones, the letter “E” carved on one side and an eagle on the other.

He mumbles a word that sounds very close to eagle.

I smile. “Almost.”

Jane points at the yellow tower. “Daddy!”

“It’s not moving, Jane,” I tell her. “You have to reach it yourself. It’s possible to walk there, honey. You just have to pick up your feet.” I talk a little slower but in my usual tone, hoping she’ll process the gist of what I say.

She smacks her lips, uncertain and confused. My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I check it once to see a text. Told you I could fucking help – Ryke

I don’t look at Twitter, but I’ve seen the tweets from after St. Patrick’s Day, the whole New York trip long passed. Most tabloids speculated that I had a fight with Ryke, and so our fans believed it too. In our own circle of friends, everyone but Rose thinks Ryke punched me from a heated argument. It’s not an off-base assumption since we rarely talk cordially.

It was bound to happen, Lo told me that morning with the shake of his head. Did you both get it out of your systems?

We nodded, and that was that.

I look up right when Moffy darts to the blue tower in front of him, showering the floorboards with more blocks. He laughs and turns to look at his cousin, her brown hair reaching her ears and half in a high pony, tied with a blue bow. He mumbles what sounds like Janie, the name not perfectly clear off his lips.

Jane teeters with each step towards the yellow tower. I put my hand to my mouth, my throat closing. She’s going to fall in a second, and instinct nearly springs me to my feet, to gather her in my arms before she hits the floor.

I force myself to stay motionless.

She can’t be afraid to walk. There will be many, many days where she has to do it without either Rose or me present, and she needs to recognize that she holds the power to stand back up. We don’t.

Just before she reaches the blocks, she rocks backwards, her weight shifting, and she lands on her bottom with a thud. Her chin quivers, searching for me with glassy blue eyes.

“I’m right here, Jane,” I say.

She meets my comforting gaze and sniffs.

“You’re okay, honey.” I smile and nod to her. “If you can’t stand back up, you can always crawl. Don’t forget that.”

She speaks to me incoherently. I nod as though I understand, but I have no idea what her string of noises truly mean. And then Moffy

carries a blue and red block over to Jane. He bangs them together and speaks like her, babbling until Jane tries to pick herself off the floor.

She stands and runs into the yellow tower, her face breaking in a smile as the blocks collapse around her.

“Good job, Jane.” I begin to clap just as my phone rings. I check the caller ID and my world seems to mute, deadened silence that’s as easy to brave as a plastic bag tied around my head.

Henry Prinsloo.

He only ever calls me in dire situations, when an integral part of my life is at risk of decay. Before I answer, I immediately head over to Jane, and I realize she’s crying.

She fell again, and this time tears collect, her cries starting to trigger Moffy. His eyes redden as he watches her, and his lips begin to tremble.

“Shh,” I coo, lifting my daughter in my arms. I whisper in her ear, doing my best to calm her. Then I bend down, able to pick up Moffy in my other arm. I carry both of them hurriedly to the living room, my mind racing along several paths. I attempt to form conclusions from miniscule facts.

In the past, Henry’s calls are most commonly about Loren or Lily. He’s my contact inside major media outlets. He’s the one who tipped me about the Celebrity Crush article before it went live—the article that would’ve casted doubt, that claimed Moffy’s real paternity test false.