Kiss the Sky

Kiss the Sky
  
Copyright © 2014 by K.B. Ritchie

All rights reserved. This book may not be
reproduced or transmitted in any capacity without written permission by the
publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review
purposes.

This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places,
characters, resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, are coincidental
and originate from the authors' imagination and are used fictitiously.

Cover image ©
Shutterstock

Book cover design by Twin Cove Designs

[ Prologue ]

CONNOR COBALT

“You
wanna
know real
life, kid?” a man once told me. “You
gotta
know
yourself first.” He drank a bottle of booze from a paper bag, sitting on the
backdoor steps of a five-star hotel. I wandered outside on my tenth birthday,
needing air. Everyone in the convention hall was thirty-five and up. Not a
single kid my age.

I wore a suit that squeezed my prepubescent frame too tight,
and I tried to ignore the fact that just inside my mother with a swelling
stomach pattered around her business partners. Even pregnant, she commanded
every single person in that room with reticence and stoicism that I could
easily mimic.

“I know who I am,” I told him. I was Connor Cobalt. The kid
who always did right. The kid who always knew when to shut up and when to
speak. I bit my tongue until it bled.

He eyed my suit and snorted. “You’re
nothin
’
but a monkey, kid. You
wanna
be those men in there.”
He nodded to the door behind him. And then he leaned in close to me, as though
to confess a secret, his vodka stench almost knocking me backwards. And yet, I
still anticipated his words. “Then you
gotta
be
better than them.”

The advice of an old drunkard stayed with me longer than
anything my father ever said. Two years later, my mother sat me in our family
parlor to deliver news that I would parallel with that memory. That shaped me
in some catalytic way.

You see, a life can be broken down to years, months,
memories and undulating moments.
Three
moments
defined mine.

One.

I was twelve. I spent holidays at Faust Boarding School for
Young Boys, but on one fluke of a weekend, I decided to visit my mother’s house
outside of Philadelphia.

She chose then to tell me. She didn’t set a date, plan the
event, make it into something larger than she thought it was. She broke the
news like she was firing an employee. Swift and construct.

“Your father and I are divorced.”

Divorced. As in past tense. Somewhere along the line, I had
missed something dramatic in my own life. It had passed right under my fucking
nose because my mother believed it meant very little. She made me believe it
too.

Their separation was deemed amicable. They had grown apart.
Katarina Cobalt had never let me into her life one-hundred percent. She let no
one see beyond what she gave them. And it was in this moment that I learned
that trick. I learned how to be strong and inhuman all at once.

I lost contact with Jim Elson, my father. I had no desire to
rekindle a relationship with him. The truths that I kept close were only
painful if I let them be, and I convinced myself fairly well that they were
just facts. And I moved on.

Two.

I was sixteen. In the dim Faust study room, smoke clouding
the air, two upperclassmen appraised a line of ten guys, stopping in front of
each pledge.

Joining a secret society was the equivalent of being
accepted to a lacrosse team.
 
Dressed in
preparatory slacks, blazers, and ties, the lot of us were supposed to grace the
halls of Harvard and Yale and repeat the same mistakes all over again.

They asked each guy an identical question and each responded
with a simple submissive
yes
and was
told to drop to their knees. Then they set their sights on the next boy.
 

When they stopped in front of me, I stayed relatively
composed. I tried mostly to hide a burgeoning, conceited smile. They looked
like two apes pounding their chest and asking for a banana. The thing about
me—I was not so willing to give just anyone my fucking banana. Every benefit
should outweigh the cost.

“Connor Cobalt,” the blond said, leering. “Will you suck my
cock?”

The question was supposed to show how willing we were to
follow orders. And I honestly wasn’t sure how far they would go, all to prove
this point.

What do I get out of
it?

The prize would be a membership into a social clique. I
believed I could obtain this a different way. I saw a path that no one else
did.

“I think you have it backwards,” I told him, my smile
peeking through. “You should suck my cock. You would enjoy it more.”

The pledges broke into laughter, and the blond stepped
forward, his nose nearly touching mine. “What did you just say to me?”

“I thought I was perfectly clear the first time.” He was
giving me the opportunity to bend down again. But if I wanted to be led by a
group of testosterone poisoned monkeys, I would have joined the football team.

“You weren’t.”

“Then let me reiterate.” I leaned forward, confidence
seeping through every pore. My lips brushed his ear. He liked that more than he
thought he would. “Suck. My. Cock.”

He pushed me back, bright red, and my eyebrow arched.

“Problem?” I asked him.

“Are you gay, Cobalt?”

“I only love myself. In that respect, maybe. And yet, I
still won’t blow you.” With this, I left the secret society behind.

Eight of the ten pledges joined me.

Three.

I was nineteen. At the University of Pennsylvania, an Ivy
League.

And I sprinted down the student center, slowing to a brisk
walk as I reached the girls’ bathroom. I pushed open the door, and a brunette
girl with four-inch heels and a conservative blue dress stood by the sink,
scrubbing a stain with wet paper towels, her eyes bloodshot with anger and
anxiety.

When she saw me enter, she directed all of her pent-up
frustration at my incoming body. “This is the
girls’
bathroom, Richard.” She used my first real name and tried to
fling a paper towel at me. But it fluttered to the ground in defeat.

I wasn’t the one who spilt a can of Cherry Fizz on her
dress. But in Rose Calloway’s mind, I might as well have been the offender. We
crossed paths every year, my boarding school and her prep school competing at
Model UN and honor societies.

I was supposed to be her Student Ambassador today—taking her
on tour of campus before her interview with the Dean, which would decide
whether or not she’d be in the Honor’s Program

“I’m aware,” I told her easily, more concerned by her state.
She gripped the sink at one point, like she was about to scream.

“I’m going to kill Caroline. I’m going to rip out her hair
one strand at a time and then steal all of her clothes.”

Her excessive exaggerations always reminded me of a rumor
I’d heard around Faust. That during a health class at Dalton Academy, her prep
school, she took her baby doll and stabbed the stuffing with a pair of
scissors. Another person said she scribbled over the baby’s forehead and handed
it to the teacher. The note:
I won’t care
for an inanimate object unless the boys do it too.

People thought she was nuts—in a genius “I will devour your
soul” kind of way.

I thought she was fucking fascinating.

“Rose—”

She slammed her palms on the counter. “She spilt
soda
on me. I’d rather she punched me in
the face. At least I have makeup.”

“I have a solution.”

She raised a hand to me. “This is an ego-free bathroom.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” I asked her with
the tilt of my head.

She glared, and I neared her anyway, about to help. She
shoved my chest in anger.

I hardly even moved. “That was a little infantile, even for
you.”

“It’s sabotage,” she said with blazing eyes, pointing a
finger at me. “Academic
gluttony.
I
hate cheaters, and she’s cheated me out of Penn.”

“You’ve already been accepted,” I reminded her.

“Would you go to a college without being admitted to the
Honor’s Program?”

I said nothing. She knew my answer.

“
Exactly.
”

I tossed the sodden towels in the nearby trash, and my
actions started loosening her shoulders as she watched me closely. Then I began
to shrug off my red blazer.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“This is what help looks like.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to be indebted to you.”
She pointed another finger at me and stepped back. “I know how you work. I
get
it. You do things for students and
they have to pay you back in some sick way.” Opportunity cost. Benefits. Deals.
They were the foundation of my life.

“I’m not prostituting people.” I held out my blazer.
“There’s not a string attached to this. I’m not expecting anything in return.
Take it.”

She just kept shaking her head at me.

My hand fell. “What?”

“Why do you act like that around Caroline?” she suddenly
asked.

I read into her question. I heard:
Why do you like her?
Caroline was a typical WASP girl. She always
looked at me with predatory gaze, silently asking:
What use will you be to me? Will I marry you some day and take all your
fucking money?

But Rose Calloway was different. She was fashionable. But
not a sorority girl. She was a genius on paper. But not a team player. She was
quick to loathe others. But not against loving.

She was a complicated equation that didn’t need to be
solved.

I didn’t even have time to respond. That’s how fast Rose
moved in her state of irritation. She set her hands on her hips and mimicked me
from earlier that day. “
You ride well,
Caroline. I saw you at the equestrian event last week. How’s your mother?
”

“I was being kind.”

“You’re different around certain people,” she told me. “I’ve
known you long enough from academic conferences to see it. You act one way with
them and another with me. How do I know who the real Connor Cobalt is?”

You never will.
“I’m
as real with you as I can be.”

“That’s complete
bullshit
,”
she cursed.

“I can’t be you,” I told her. “You leave a trail of bodies
with your glares. People are afraid to approach you, Rose. That’s a problem.”

“At least I know who I am.”

We had somehow drawn towards each other. I towered over her,
taller than most men and built like an athlete. I never hunched. Never
recoiled. I wore my height with pride.

She raised her chin to combat me. I pushed her to be the
best that she could be.

“I know exactly who I am,” I said with every ounce of
confidence I possessed. “What unsettles you, Rose, is that you have no idea
what kind of guy that is.” I stepped closer and she stiffened. “If people stare
at me and see my problems, then I’m useless to them. So I give them exactly
what they want. I am whomever or whatever they need.” I held out my blazer
again. “And you need a fucking jacket.”

She reluctantly took the blazer but hesitated. “I can’t be
you,” she said. “I can’t internalize all of my feelings. I don’t understand how
you can do that.”

“Practice.”

Our eyes met for an extended moment. There was so much
between us that I wasn’t ready to uncover right then. I wasn’t prepared for the
deep conversations that she would force me to have.

Rose Calloway couldn’t stand me because of what I was—a guy
who wanted to reach the top. The irony was that she wanted the same thing. She
just wasn’t willing to do what I was to get there.

She slipped on my blazer that dwarfed her frame. “What part
of you do you show me?” she asked.

“The best part.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you have nothing real to say,
Richard, then why speak at all?”

I couldn’t form the words to reply with what she wanted. I
spent years building barriers and defenses. I could take care of a woman better
than any other guy could. But my mother never taught me how to love. She taught
me about stocks and history and different languages. She made me intelligent.

She made me logical and factual.

I knew sex. I knew affection. But love? That was an
illogical concept, something as fictional as the Bible, Katarina Cobalt would
say. When I was a child, I thought love belonged in fantasy with witches and
monsters. It couldn’t exist in real life, and if it did, it was just like
religion—only there to make people feel good.