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“I don’t make anyone think anything,” he retorts. “I just don’t give a fuck about trying to prove them wrong.”
“You are who you are.” I set my toothbrush back in the holder. “At least you have five people that can put up with you.”
He flips me off and then raises the handcuffs like it’s time, Cobalt.
I blink twice. “You’re not serious.”
“Lo said to think of it as birthday punishment.” He hops off the counter, one inch shorter than me.
“And why am I being punished exactly?” I head into my closet, picking out black slacks and a white button-down.
“I don’t fucking know,” he says from within my bedroom. “Maybe for being an arrogant prick seven days a week.” I step into my pants and begin to button my shirt as he adds, “Or how about for making a birthday celebration harder than it has to be.”
While I finish buttoning my shirt, I slip back into my room again. Ryke physically blocks the door. I try to plan an escape. I can’t run faster than Ryke. He was the captain of his track team in college. I’m not stupid enough to try.
Then again, I’d rather try to leave than do nothing and be handcuffed. “You’re punishing me for being me,” I tell him.
He holds my concentrated gaze. “At least you have five people that can put up with you.”
Five people who love me so much that they want to celebrate a mundane, pointless day in my honor. I grab my phone off my dresser and call Daisy, my cell to my ear.
“You have to follow me to the kitchen,” Ryke says. “If you fucking bolt, I have no problem tackling you.”
My brow quirks, and the phone line clicks.
“Hello there, birthday boy,” Daisy greets like she’s in the same room as me. She has to be in the basement or in the kitchen.
“Do you mind entertaining your boyfriend for ten or fifteen minutes?”
Ryke shakes his head at me, silently saying that’s not going to work.
On the phone, Daisy winces. “I wish I could, but Rose made me promise not to help you today. She almost made it a blood oath pact…so she’d be really upset if I chose you over her. Sisters before misters.”
“Where is Rose?” I ask.
“What was that?” she feigns confusion. “You’re breaking up.” And then someone else’s voice creates a static noise in the receiver. Lily. “Sorry, Connor, I can’t hear you!” Daisy hangs up before I do.
I pocket my cell, and Ryke opens the door, gesturing for me to follow him. I realize that if I want to leave this house, there’s no other alternative than physically overpowering Ryke.
Without another word, I walk behind him along the hallway. As we descend the steps, I decide it’s better to make a quick exit through the backdoor and not the front.
He leads me into the kitchen anyway, and the minute he tries to reach for me, to handcuff me to the fucking kitchen chair, I sprint to the backdoor.
“Connor!” Ryke yells, chasing after me. Right as my hand reaches the knob, he seizes my bicep and pulls me backwards.
I spin out of the hold easily and twist his arm behind his back, my lips close to his ear. “Tu perdras cette lutte, mon ami.” You will lose this fight, my friend.
And then his elbow rams into my stomach, the force knocking the wind out of me. I cough roughly, enough to where he slips from my grasp. I hear the click before I feel the cold metal on my wrist. I jerk my arm, but I’ve been restrained to a rung on the kitchen chair. I can move enough to find a paperclip and unlock the handcuff, but not with Ryke Meadows as a bodyguard.
My jaw muscles tense more than usual. I thought his heart was too soft to inflict physical pain on me.
Ryke rests his elbows on the bar counter, lounging. “Veux-tu dire la lutte que tu viens de perdre?” You mean the fight that you just lost?
He replied back in French. This is rare. If I’m going to be stuck in this gigantic kitchen to a six-person round table, I might as well make the best of it. So I switch to Italian.
“Conosco un segreto sulla tua fidanzata di cui nessuno è al corrente, nemmeno tu.” I know a secret about your girlfriend, and no one else knows it, not even you. It sounds mocking and slightly childish, but I’m in a strange mood.
His face darkens, concern hitting him. “Stai mentendo.” You’re lying.
He knows Italian.
I can’t restrain my grin. I switch to German. “Ich lüge zu meinem Nutzen. Natürlich.” I’m lying for my benefit. Of course.
His spine straightens, worry still present in his narrowed eyes. “Connor, I’m not fucking playing around anymore.”
“You don’t know German,” I realize.
His nose flares, and he shakes his head. “No. I don’t know German.”
Rose and I prefer French, but I grasp this certainty: a language Ryke won’t understand if we need privacy. Though, her German isn’t great either.
Unlike Rose, I had a penchant for linguistics at Faust. I liked words, the roots, the structure, the foundation. It’s almost like math, and uncovering one language made another easier to learn.
“Connor—”
“I lied about Daisy,” I say. “I don’t really know anything more than you do.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m going to let this go. Only because I hit you on your birthday.”
“Special privileges?” I can barely feign excitement, and I try to lift my arm, only for the chair to scrape the floor and the cuff to rattle. I notice the boxed cake mix on the counter beside a tub of chocolate icing and bottles of sprinkles. The sentiments are nice, but no one needs to make today about me. It’s unnecessary. “Can I at least have a paper and a pen?”
Ryke gives me a strange look. “What the fuck for?”
“I’m writing a love letter to my wife,” I say flatly. He still wears that look. “As a former journalism major, I assume that you understand the concept of writing. It’s the process by which you scrawl your name or, in your case, profanities onto a surface, in this case, paper. You do know what paper is?”
“Fuck off.”
The echo of heels sound along the hardwood from the living room, and Rose emerges through the doorway, shutting it behind her. I sweep her features instantly.
She wears a black floral kimono and a simple black cotton dress, one she’ll sometimes put on when she does her makeup. Her hair is sleeked back in an elegant pony, her lips stained deep red and eye shadow too smoky for a casual event.
She’s in the processes of dressing up for something. The moment she sees me, a smile plays at her lips.
[ 22 ]
CONNOR COBALT
“This isn’t funny, darling.” My voice sounds complacent but serious.
She walks further into the kitchen. “What’s funny is that your jet is scheduled for Hong Kong in…” She checks the oven clock. “Three hours.”
“He wants paper and a pen to write you a letter,” Ryke says, already heading for the basement door. “Can you fucking text me when you need me to come back?”
She nods, but her eyes stay on me. I watch her procure a pen and paper without question, and she slides both to me and sits across the table.
I take a seat in the chair I’m attached to. “You can join me in Hong Kong,” I tell her, “if you promise not to say the b-word. Or better yet…” I scoot closer to the table. “I can put something in your mouth so it won’t even be possible.”
Her cheeks rose, and my desire pumps blood to my cock.
What I’d give for our positions to be reversed. I raise my wrist, the one still cuffed to the rung. “Unlock me and we can make it a date.”
Rose leans back in her chair, her ankles and arms crossed. “I can’t. I have plans tonight and you running away like Cinderella will ruin them.”
“Isn’t it customary for me to receive things that I want on my birthday?” What I don’t want: to go downtown with Rose or to go on some romantic getaway trip on this day.
“It is,” she agrees. “But you never take stock in birthd
ay traditions.” She presses her red lips together, smoothing out the lipstick.
I click the pen. “Don’t move until I’m finished with this,” I order. “You can do that at least?”
She scowls, her eyes narrowing. “I can do a lot of things, Richard. Like scoop out your eyeballs with a spoon or sew your lips together with my needle and thread.”
“The latter would dissatisfy both of us, so I don’t suggest it.”
She watches me write on the paper. “Jane is down for a nap…” Her voice is distant with curiosity. “The irony is that we’re both stubborn on our birthdays, just for different reasons.”
She loves her birthday like a narcissist would—like I should. And I adore giving her my full, unbridled attention on August 5th, pampering her every need.
I pass her the paper and pen. I scrawled three names: Connor Cobalt on his birthday, Connor Cobalt working at his office, Connor Cobalt beating you at chess.
Her glare could kill.
