Fuel the Fire (Calloway Sisters 3)

[ 41 ]

ROSE COBALT

Jane cries bloody murder, focused on the bodies cramped against the windows of Connor’s limo. I want to slaughter every person that is making her cry this way. I can’t tell if we already parked in front of the pediatrician’s building, but I’m antsy to reach our destination and bring Jane to her regular checkup on time.

Her first birthday is in June. I’d like to think this’ll die down by then, but it’s most likely wishful thinking on my part.

I hold Jane on my lap, wiping her tears quickly. “Mommy’s going to dropkick anyone that touches you.”

“And Daddy’s going to bail Mommy out of jail,” Connor says, placing tiny blue earplugs in my palm.

I give him a look. “Mommy will be within her full rights to assassinate any vile creature that harms her baby.”

He caresses my cheek with his knuckles, the pressure how I like. “Nothing will happen to our baby.”

He’s pacifying me. Connor can’t predict the future. He knows this, and there is reasonable probability that something could go wrong.

“Anything can happen,” I tell him. I almost wonder if we should turn back and reschedule her appointment. We tried to lose the paparazzi, but they’ve been camping outside our gated neighborhood for the past week, waiting for us to drive out. Our neighbors have already complained, and Connor thinks another house will be up for sale by the end of the month.

It’s very likely the media’s presence could increase by the beginning of May, so it’s hard to return home, knowing that tomorrow and the next week and the next week after that could be worse or the same.

“I’m not leaving your side,” Connor reminds me. We’ve formed a plan to barrel through the paparazzi without Jane being harmed or even breathed on the wrong way.

I nod, soaking in his confidence, and I fit the soft plugs into Jane’s ears.

Gilligan, Connor’s driver, cranes his neck over his shoulder. “We’re here.” I hardly noticed the limo stopping since we’ve been inching along.

“Where’s Heidi?” I ask Connor.

He has his phone out, texting our bodyguards instructions. “All three of them just parked next to us.”

I peek out his window, a camera lens literally pressed against the glass. “I don’t see them.” And just as I say the words, our bodyguards push aside the paparazzi, clearing space by Connor’s door.

I tuck Jane to my hip, her cries escalating now that I’ve put a foreign object in her ear. Outside is too loud and caustic to remove them. “Shh,” I whisper. “Be brave, my little gremlin, and I promise they’ll all go away.” Her tears sincerely do a number on me, my chest twisting. I splay a woolen, teal blanket over part of my shoulder and her head, all the while rubbing her back.

She settles only a little.

I let out a tense breath. I never believed a baby could stir this type of emotion from me, but I channel her fear into motivation, prepared to bypass every lens and person that stands in our way.

You’re a fucking category five hurricane, Rose. They should all fear your destruction.

Damn right.

Connor clasps my free hand, threading his fingers with mine. “Ready?”

I raise my chin and nod.

He opens his door, the flashes exploding. The noises and bright shutters blind me for a millisecond, almost pummeling me backwards. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life, not even when the media first took interest in my family.

I orient myself about the same time that Connor slides out. I scoot along the seat, his hand never leaving mine, and I exit with him.

“Is your marriage fake?!”

“Did you know Connor has been with men?!”

“Are the sex tapes real?!”

Connor squeezes my hand, and I can’t shut the door behind me. Vic takes care of that, staying back while Heidi and Stephen push forward. “Give them room!” our bodyguards keep shouting for us.

I hug close to Connor’s back while he guides me forward, Jane protectively shielded between my chest and his six-foot-four towering body.

I’d like to cast threatening glares in every direction, more territorial over my baby than I’ve ever been before, but every time I look out, flashes burst and white lights flicker in my vision.

So I dip my head and concentrate on Jane. The brick building with a pediatric sign isn’t far from here.

“Whose idea was the business arrangement?!”

“Connor, do you have a boyfriend?!”

“You should be ashamed!”

I almost falter at this last exclamation. I’ve heard it before, but it packs a harder punch than the others. It rouses parts of me that ache to scream in reply, verbally sparring until I lose my voice.

“A child needs love! A child needs love!” more than a few people chant. These aren’t paparazzi but rather haters that like to picket us.

I grit my teeth. A few days ago outside Hale Co., I already screamed once: who are you to determine whether or not I love my daughter? You don’t know me! I was called “vicious, bitchy, and belligerent” for simply defending myself. I’ve yelled that I love Jane until I’m blue in the face, but no one wants my words.

It’s the most frustrating, enraging battle I’ve ever been a part of. My natural instinct will always be to speak louder if they tell me to shut up.

Bodies pack against me. I press Jane harder to my chest, and I can feel her heart pitter-patter in quick succession.

I won’t let anything happen to you. I won’t.

And then a strong, painful force snags a chunk of my hair by my temple. I can’t tell what I’m caught on: jewelry or camera equipment or a jacket’s zipper…something that I loathe right now.

I take a step forward, and I’m not coming loose. It yanks me backwards, and I stagger in my heels.

Immediately, I let go of Connor’s hand, afraid that if I fall while clutching him, he’ll topple backwards and crush Jane. “Give me space!” I scream at everyone around me.

“Rose!” Connor calls. Two people already wedge between us, and we’re pulled apart. “ROSE!” He fights to reach me while I struggle to free my hair with one hand. I can’t get it loose, and I’m close to being swept back and pulled onto the cement.

I make a split-second decision.

I can’t fall, not with Jane in my arms, not in the throngs of people with heavy cameras, so I inhale strongly, both arms wrapped around my baby, and I charge forward with an aggressive jerk. The pain sears my scalp and wells my eyes.

But I’m free.

Connor reaches me, his commanding arm swiftly hooking around my waist. He leads me faster to the building. I don’t look back to see the chunk of hair that I left behind. I just remember what could’ve happened, a pile-up of people, smothering Jane.

It didn’t happen.

I still shake like it did. Then quiet hits me, and I realize that I’m inside the hallway of the office building, the cameramen shut outside.

“Rose,” Connor forces my name, slapping my cheek lightly until I focus on him. “You’re in shock…” He clutches the back of my head, protectively and in control, making the chaos feel manageable—like it won’t overthrow us, even if it almost did.

“No…” I say even though I know I am. “…how is she?” I check on Jane beneath her blanket, and she’s no longer crying, her face pressed to my chest in contentment. She studies the shape of an orange tabby cat printed on her blanket.

“Where were you?!” Connor shouts at Vic without letting go of me. “You were supposed to be right behind her.”

“I got stuck in the crowds.”

Connor’s jaw muscle noticeably contracts. “Before we leave, you need to have a path cleared for us, and I’m calling more security to help you since you can’t manage on your own.”

He nods and says a few apologies to both of us.

At this, I wake up. Everyone is safe. That’s what matters.

“Let’s go, Connor,” I tell him, and his hand falls to my shoulder, partially guiding me into the pediatrician’s office. My steps still feel a little dazed, but as soon as we enter the empty waiting room, I break apart from him and sit on a chair by a stack of magazines, crossing my ankles.

I feel safer now that we’re here. Connor goes to sign Jane in at the receptionist’s desk.

My temple throbs and scalds. A gust of cold air blows through the vent and stings my wound. I ignore the pain and set Jane on my thighs, tucking the blanket around her. She immediately tugs at my necklace…and then, of course, my hair.

I wince. “No, don’t touch Mommy’s hair.” I peel her fingers from the strands and procure her stuffed lion out of my purse. My brain is somewhat fogged, barely believing that my fragile, delicate child went through that hell. I can’t and won’t lock her in a tower and remove her from society, just because no one can behave properly.