Fuel the Fire (44 page)

“Is your marriage fake?!”

“Are you even in love?!”

Rose is finally able to clasp my hand, and she pulls me towards her, Heidi helping by gripping my wrist. They both tug, and I pass through the last row of cameras.

I hold Rose to my body and cup her face. The heat in her eyes hides panic, but her arms clutch me more securely, in fear that we’ll split apart again.

I can feel my heart pumping vigorously in my chest, and I kiss her forehead, the cameras flashing wildly again.

“Why didn’t you kiss on the mouth?!” someone yells.

Because you’d dissect her rigid posture and say it was a publicity stunt, like everyone has done before.

I whisper in her ear, “Ça va?”
Are you okay?

“Just pissed at that one.” She points at an older man with a full beard. He raises one hand off his camera in surrender when I meet his gaze. “Don’t act innocent,” she snaps, tucking her purse underneath her arm. “Everyone heard what you said!”

The other cameramen shift away from him, dissociating themselves from his behavior. I draw Rose closer to my chest, unsure of what he said. For her to be this upset over a comment, it must’ve been worse than all the others.

She takes a deep breath, and the shouting from paparazzi escalates around us. I lower my head to her lips so I can hear her answer.

“He said that social services should take our daughter away—”

A camera nearly clocks her in the head, but instead hits the Escalade. Alarm flickers in her eyes, and I pull her towards the driver’s side. “We need to leave,” I tell her.

She nods in agreement. “Heidi,” she says loudly. “You can follow us with Vic and Stephen?” My bodyguard is already at the extra SUV with Vic.

Before she leaves, Heidi shouts, “We’ll try to keep the paparazzi off your rear!”

I protectively stand behind Rose while she opens the driver’s side door. I wait for her to slide in. Lenses hit my back, paparazzi shoving each other in haste.

“Crawl in,” she tells me. I open my mouth to refute, but she adds, “You’ve been drinking.”

I forgot. The past ten minutes has pulverized any buzz I had. I put my lips to her ear again. “Stay close to me.” I move around her, keeping an arm around her waist as long as I can. I have to crawl over the driver’s seat and onto the passenger one, a feat much more difficult for someone of my height.

I manage well enough, quick as I can be, and by the time I sit, Rose is already in her seat, slamming the door shut. She turns on the ignition and flicks on the light.

“I hope I blind them,” she mutters.

I stretch my arm over the back of her headrest, watching as the paparazzi disperse to their cars, some still stationary and others putting the lenses to our side windows.

“Go slow,” I tell her.

She’s always been an aggressive driver, and in these situations, it calls for someone who straddles between the line of careful and assertive.

“I think we should just run them over.” She lays on the horn while letting out a frustrated growl.

“You failed defensive driving, I presume.” My arm falls to her shoulders.

She relaxes a little, but her voice stays tight. “I
passed
with a perfect score.”

I can hardly believe this. I’m positive she took the course. Rose likes safety classes and learning, more than anyone I know, but she becomes vexed when people go out of turn at a four-way stop. “Was it a pass-or-fail course?” I wonder.

She shoots me a glare before focusing on the road, inching forward until we reach the curb.

“By your silence, I’m assuming
yes
.”

“Passing is a perfect score,” she retorts.

I can’t hide a grin. “Then the percentage of people who have perfect scores is high, and it loses all bragging rights.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “It’s a
personal
victory. My achievements don’t have to be measured by everyone else’s.”

Mine usually are
, I realize. I like competitions. I like being the best. I’ve always thrived off of it, but what she says makes sense— “Stop,” I suddenly say, and she slams on the brakes.

A cameraman’s sedan just pulled out in front of us. The Escalade jerks to a standstill at the curb, right before we reach the busy road.

Rose hits the steering wheel a couple times and growls again.

I roll down the window and ask a photographer with a Canon to help push back some of the men and women who stand too close. He obliges and clears the path. Some paparazzi know if they’re kinder to us, we’ll be kind in return.

Space opens, and Rose pulls onto the road, the SUV with our bodyguards tailing us. Without the extra noise, the car quiets, the only sounds from vehicles speeding down the street.

Rose’s fingers tense around the steering wheel, and it reminds me where I just was, who I was talking to—everything I said.

“Tell me you at least didn’t use the word
dude
?” She cringes at the thought.

My lips rise again. “No
dudes
this time.”

Her eyes flit to me, softening just a little to ask
are you alright?
She doesn’t have to say it aloud.

“You were with me tonight.” My voice is almost a whisper.

“Did I tell you to castrate Scott with a dull steak knife?”

“No castration, but bodily harm was mentioned at least once.”

“I must have been only partially with you then. I always find ways to chop off his dick.” She stops at a red light and then sniffs the air, frowning. She smells her dress, the lingering scent of cigarettes more on me…but I pressed against Rose, so there’s a very slight possibility the odor is on her too.

“The light is green,” I say.

She drives again, but she tries to focus on the road and me, her eyes narrowing with each glance back and each sniff. “Did you…you didn’t…you
did.
Richard!”

I try not to laugh. “I did do many things. You’re correct.”

“Take your shirt off,” she demands.

“Mmm,” I feign contemplation. “No.”

“I need to smell your shirt,” she rephrases, waving her hand theatrically at me to relinquish my button-down, her yellow-green eyes plastered to the street.

“Is this a new fetish, darling?” My grin widens at her glare. “I can think of a few things worth smelling before my shirt,” I say, my hand skimming the bareness of her neck. “My hair, my—”

“My car
reeks
of your ego.”

“My ego smells like success, so go ahead and fumigate your car—I know you’ll miss the scent.”

She snorts. “And what does success smell like, Richard?”

I lean back, my hand caressing her neck and shoulders. Her body melts against the seat, and I watch her knees squeeze together. “Like newly pressed suits, leather belts and Oxfords, a hint of shaving cream, and even more sandalwood.” I don’t dare restrain my grin. “You lie with me every night, Rose, I’d hope you know what I smell like.”

And her neck heats beneath my palm. “The smell of success seems to be biased towards
you
.”

This is a riddle that I know she’s already solved but I state aloud even if she can’t. “I am success, darling.”

She turns her head to look at me, just once. “At least your arrogance is still intact.” The seriousness of her tone tugs at a place deeper inside of me.

I stroke the back of her head. “You make me forget the worst parts of life.”

She actually smiles, focused back on the street. “And what’s the term for that?”

I think for a moment. A person who shrouds the painful moments, who conspires to make joyful ones. Who eliminates all the mundane shades in favor of ardent colors and keeps you burning alive. Is there a word for this rare person in someone’s life?

I think there is.

“Soul mate,” I say.

Her lips part in surprise. “What?”

“If you’d like other terms, I have those too: my wife, my sometimes competitor, my always teammate, my friend, the mother of my child—”

“Rewind,” she waves at me. “To the soul mate part.”

I smile. “I love you, Rose.”

She slackens completely, her shoulder drooped and fully relaxed. She opens her mouth, to compliment me, I think, but then she inhales the cigarette-scented air and her eyes narrow once more.

“You can take a shower with me when we get home.” My hand slides down her arm and to her thigh. “I’ll wash you slowly…every part of you.” I dip my hand underneath her dress.

She clasps my wrist, stopping me from riding up between her legs. “It’s been a long day,” she says.

I frown. It has, and I just want to spend the rest of the night tangled with her, holding her—

“So I’d rather take a bath with you.”

“I like that plan.” I kiss her hand and place it back on the steering wheel. I’m not certain what’s going to happen next in the long-term future or what I may choose in May, but I remind myself that Rose keeps safe all the real pieces of me.

If I ever lose myself, I just need to find her.

“Rose!” A van cuts off our Escalade, narrowly missing a collision with our headlights. Instead of slamming on the brakes, she switches lanes quickly and speeds past the van.

Their windows are rolled down, cameras directed at our car.

“They’re going to kill us,” Rose says, fire smoldering her gaze, but panic returns to her tense shoulders, her breath heavy.

“We’ll make it,” I try to assure her, though the cold reality ices me.

This is day one of a shit storm. It only gets worse from here.

[ 40 ]

CONNOR COBALT

Spotted! Loren Hale and Connor Cobalt grab lunch together. Could this mean they’re declaring their relationship to the public? Perhaps it’s much more than platonic. All we know is that LoCo is one HOT couple, even if they are cheating on their wives
.

Lo holds up the phone in front of my face, letting me read the caption below the photo of us together at a restaurant eating tacos and acting civilized just ten minutes ago.

“It’s fucking everywhere,” Lo says in disbelief. “We were just there. Do these people not have a goddamn life?”

I raise my ankle to my knee and sit straighter on the leather chair. I followed Lo back to his office to discuss some financial contracts. He values my advice, especially since he knows the board members aren’t all on his side. It’s why he can’t simply champion Rose’s ideas and win them over. Business relationships take time to build.

“I told you this would happen,” I remind him. There’s no going back now.

His eyes flit to me. “And I don’t care about it.” His phone vibrates for the twelfth time since we arrived at his office. He groans under his breath. “Corbin keeps texting me, telling me how I fucked up.” His jaw sharpens, and he starts texting back. “
Go choke on roadkill.
Send.” He pushes a button and drops his phone to his glass desk, his eyes murderous. He’s been shooting glares at every single person who so much as glances his way.

When his gaze returns to me, it hardly softens, but that’s because he’s been on edge all day.

“I can’t believe you haven’t even glared at a single person.” He shakes his head. “Not even when they called you a…” He can’t repeat the words. I haven’t made a decision. I haven’t spoken to the press or lied or told the truth. I’m silent, which some believe people is no better than admitting to the accusations. I’m fine with waiting for the press conference to make a speech. I need time.

“Your glares are far more effective, darling,” I tell him with a smile.

He nods, returning it, even though there’s a tense layer when I make the joke. We both know it’s what’s causing the outside friction.

Lo spins his wedding band, the giveaway that says he’s craving alcohol. “Please tell me you at least screamed or cried or something.”

I remember how I broke down while holding Rose in my arms, but I don’t want to mention this. There’s a large part of me that craves the way Lo looks at me. Immortal. Impervious. A god among men. That has only been altered a handful of times over the years, and today I don’t want to add to the count. So I pivot the conversation, “How’s Lily?”

He shakes his head once. I’ve poked at a sore spot.

“That bad?”

He rubs his temple, anxiety wounding through him. I’m causing this.
Me
. My past. The thought cages my breath for a second.

“Uh…shit. She wouldn’t want me talking about her.” He taps his fingers on the desk, obviously wanting to share. To get it off his chest.

“I won’t tell.”

“Rose?” he asks. “Because she’ll probably feel the need to talk to Lily about it and then I’m fucked for telling you.”

“I promise.”

His shoulders fall and he stops twisting his wedding band. “She’s really upset about the new fandom name the journalists made for her and Ryke.
Celebrity Crush
has been posting about it everywhere.” Now that there are rumors of Lo and me together, the rumors of Lily and Ryke have resurfaced. “She said she’s not upset about the
actual
rumors. It’s just that she’s been promoting freakin’
Raisy
for the past year, and now they came up with
Rily
. She said it makes her sick.”

Lo looks crushed, the weight of Lily’s pain pounding him. It’s this type of love that scares me the most. Feeling that much empathy is crippling.

“Maybe it’ll all pass in time,” I say, letting a shred of hope float into the world. It may be false, but I choose to see it as real. 

His eyes are reddened, and he lowers his head so people in the hallway can’t see, his office mostly just glass walls.

“I’m sorry, Lo,” I tell him. I hurt him, whether he wants to believe it or not. Whether he wants to bury it with glares and
I don’t give a fucks.
The pain that he is going through is the result of my history.

He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. If anything, Lil and I should be apologizing to you. We’re the ones who started this.” He’s talking about the fame. It all began with Lily and Lo. Their addictions and the salacious headlines.