“I’ve never been good at sharing,” he tells me deeply. “Not accomplishments or titles, and I’d certainly never want to share you.” I can feel him twisting my hair and clipping the strands on top of my head.
I open my eyes now, the cream evenly applied over every lock, nothing reaching beyond my hairline. The twisted mass of developer and hair weighs heavy on my head, but I keep my neck straight, able to support it fine.
“Thirty minutes,” he tells me. “And then I’ll wash your hair.” He removes his grip from my waist and snaps off the sodden glove in the empty plastic bowl. His arms weave around my body to reach the sink, and he cages me here while he washes his hands. I take note of the time on his watch.
He’s still staring at me, like he’s not finished playing with me yet.
I’m not done talking. “What about ménage à trois?” I test him, unblinking and hardly wavering from this question.
I wonder if he’s imagining this twisted picture of another man together with us. After he shuts off the faucet and dries his hands with a towel, he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling my back against his chest so hard that I ache between my legs and barely maintain grasp of the counter’s edge.
I keep my head away from him, avoiding a mess of bleach. Even so, his voice sounds close to my ear. “This man wouldn’t stand a chance in bed with us. I’d never let him near you, not to touch you and never to fuck you.” His fingers make their way up the soft flesh of my thighs, cupping me, his thumb teasing me in circular motions against the lace of my panties.
My chest rises and falls heavily. “What if he takes me from the front?” My voice is layered with ice.
Connor swiftly spins me around now, my back digging into the lip of the counter, his hand lifting one of my legs around his waist, his erection in line with my panties. He pushes against me, the force at break-neck speed in my mind, the force so hard that I could beg aloud to be naked with him.
I don’t though. My mind orients itself quickly enough. I hang onto his muscular biceps, and his lips near my ear as he whispers, “I’d rotate you.” He pushes my ass up, like he wants to fuck me this way, right now, repeatedly. Over and over. “Comme ça.” Like this.
I’m so unbelievably wet.
I grab his wrist to stop his movement. “Now he can snap off my bra,” I combat, able to meet his gaze. “You failed.”
Those two words cause his jaw to tic, so subtly that I almost miss it. Without moving, he says, “I’d possess you in bed, Rose, so much that any other man would leave in misery.” I believe him. “No satisfaction, no release.” He grazes me with his eyes, my breasts nearly popping a few buttons with my deep breaths. “Balls aching, dick begging—”
Someone knocks at the door. “If you’re playing Scrabble in the bathroom, you two are at a new level of weird,” Loren says.
“Drop me,” I whisper to Connor, smacking his arm.
He doesn’t, not yet. “We’ll be ready to head out in an hour,” he tells Lo.
We’re all going to the nearest rock climbing gym, as a way of celebrating Ryke before he undergoes surgery after Christmas, the holiday already in two weeks. The gym is also where Walter Aimes is supposed to take photos of us, unbeknownst to my sisters and their significant others.
Lo speaks through the wooden door. “Willow is here early to babysit so we’re going now.”
My eyes widen in horror. Now. My hair. I reach out, subconsciously about to touch my head. Connor rapidly releases my leg and seizes my wrists, right before my palms nearly plant on the goopy, bleachy mess.
My heart is in my throat. “I almost…”
“You didn’t,” he says, his smile dimmed to seriousness. I’ve become more than a tad bit obsessive-compulsive since my pregnancy and Jane’s birth. High-stress situations just puncture little parts of me, and I fixate on things I shouldn’t.
“Open up.” Loren knocks on the door again. “What is that smell?” He pauses. “Is that bleach?” I hate Loren Hale’s nose. I want to murder that too.
Connor mouths to me, stay calm.
“I’m always calm,” I snap, the statement clearly false. It’s by far the worst retort I’ve used all week.
His lips still curve upward as he walks backwards to the door. “Your acting needs work, darling.”
True.
In seconds, my acting is about to be put to the test again. I’d pray to a higher being to give me strength and success, but I keep hearing Connor’s voice in my head that says: I’m the only person you should pray to. His egomania is clouding my judgment and my sanity.
But strangely I’m still glad he’s on my team.
I can’t do this alone.
6
CONNOR COBALT
Lo puts his hand on the bathroom door, opening it wider to see all of Rose. “Jesus Christ.” He scrutinizes her hair and the products on the counter. “Are you having a quarter-life crisis?”
“I wanted a change,” Rose snaps in defense. Beneath the white developer and bleach mixture, her hair begins to turn a burnt orange color—some strands even lighter.
“So you thought blondes have more fun?” Lo walks further into the bathroom with me.
“No,” Rose snaps. “I can castrate you equally as a brunette as I can a blonde.” She gives him a wry smile.
He returns one. “Your idea of fun is fucked up.”
Two more people suddenly emerge in the doorway. Lily pants, out of breath, in leggings and a plain black baggy shirt. Daisy is next, in similar workout clothes, only a shorter top that says wild at heart and significantly less wheezing.
Lily holds a stitch in her side. “Are you two almost ready? The bodyguards are waiting and getting kinda grumpy.” Before she walks forward, her eyes grow big at Rose’s hair. “Whaaa…”
Daisy puts her hands to her mouth, eyes growing to saucers.
“She’s…” Lily can’t find the words.
Lo helps her. “Lost her mind.”
“She’s blonde,” Lily manages to say, all on her own.
“Wow,” Daisy mutters, still in shock.
Lo pulls Lily into his chest for a hug, and he even kisses her cheek. She’s too concentrated on Rose to even notice, which means this is a larger ordeal for the Calloway sisters than I thought it’d be.
“Hair color is temporary,” I say. “It can always be changed.” I just need this to go smoothly—for the sake of Moffy and Jane.
“But Rose has never dyed her hair before,” Daisy explains what I already know.
“Rose,” Lily starts, “you said you’d skin a cat before you became blonde.”
She rotates, a chill in her eyes. “Maybe I have.” Her voice is flat and cold, but it isn’t her best acting.
“Okay, you’re scaring me,” Lily says. “I never thought this would happen.” Her voice cracks.
Lo frowns and looks down at his wife. “Are you crying?”
Lily wipes her eyes.
Rose is trying not to cry.
Daisy looks upset.
I didn’t predict this. I couldn’t have.
“It’s just,” Lily begins, “you can count on so few things in life and one of them is Rose’s hair.”
“Jesus Christ,” Lo groans.
“It’s true,” Daisy nods.