CONNOR COBALT
I’m late.
I fucking hate that I’m late. Even with my legitimate excuse—five hours of Wharton lectures and another two hour business meeting at a New York City restaurant—I’m still unnerved. Time is obstinate, constant, and undeniably aggravating. No matter how hard I try, time will not bend to my will.
The traffic on my commute from New York to Philly resurfaces my frustration. A man in a green truck lays on his horn to my left, as if noise will magically part the congested freeway. I hold back the urge to roll down my window and remind him that he’s not Moses and magic does not exist.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as I reread the last text from Rose.
It’s on soon. I’ll tape it just in case. – Rose
The first commercial for the reality show airs tonight. And Rose is already preparing for me to miss it. For most, being late for some stupid thirty-second television promo spot wouldn’t be a big deal. They’d shrug it off.
But it’s not okay.
All it takes is one time. One single moment where I walk through the door ten minutes late and everything could change. The what ifs in life aren’t impossibilities. What ifs are parallel paths that could happen—that could be. In one moment, a what if can be fact.
Scott Van Wright is a what if.
If I hadn’t heard the shower turn on, the pipes rumbling through the
walls and ceiling, then I would have never gone upstairs. If I had no desire to tell Rose to go back to bed, to take a shower later, then I would have never heard Scott’s voice through the door, tangled with hers.
What if I never entered the bathroom to break apart what could have been?
Scott forcing himself on Rose is an image that cripples all the others in my head—it’s what makes my spot in this car and not with her so painful.
Another honk fractures my thoughts. I accelerate and close the small gap to appease the asshole behind me. My eyes shift to the exit signs and the words blur together, almost unreadable. I blink and try to focus, but it barely helps.
Don’t worry. Do not fucking worry, Connor.
I’m starting to feel the effects of 36-hours without sleep. The night is my graveyard shift. Proposals for class. Business emails for Cobalt Inc. Everything and anything that needs my attention. I’ve pulled all-nighters before, sure, but I have a rule to never exceed the 36-hour mark. Sleep deprivation promotes brain inefficiency.
This is what I get for ditching my limo. I could have taken a nap in the backseat while Gilligan drove me to Philadelphia. But as soon as filming began, I opted to drive myself in a silver sedan. I may have been granted luxury, but I work hard. And if I’m videotaped being carted around in my limousine, all anyone will see is a lazy son of a bitch.
My eyes sag, and I feel the exhaustion weighing on my muscles. I make the conscious decision to carefully pull off the next exit and park in front of a drug store.
I take out my cellphone and walk inside.
“I need you to prescribe me Adderall,” I into the receiver. My loafers clap against the tiled floor and the attendant gives me a narrowed look.
With my black slacks and white button-down, I look better suited for Wall Street than some drug store off a freeway.
“No.” Frederick doesn’t even hesitate. “And next time you call, you can lead with hello.”
I grind my teeth as I stop in front of the boxes of decongestants.
Frederick has been my therapist since my parents’ divorce. My mother’s words: I can hire someone if you need to talk. So I spent weeks combing through potential psychiatrists to give the whole “talking” thing a go.
Frederick was on the college fast track, and I met him when he graduated med school at just twenty-four. He had this air about him. He was hungry for knowledge, and that kind of passion was lost in the other thirty and forty-year-old shrinks that I had interviewed. So I chose him.
He’s been my psychiatrist for twelve years. I would call him my best friend, but he constantly reminds me that friends can’t be bought. He earns a staggering sum from me every year, and I overpay for these moments—
the ones where I call him up at any hour of the day and he gives me his full undivided attention.
Our last session, we discussed Scott Van Wright, and I tried (rather poorly) not to call the producer names like I was seven and spitting on a bully. But I think I may have used the words “fallible, conceited human bacteria” when Frederick asked me what I thought of him.
Thankfully psychiatrists have an ethical duty to keep secrets. “Hello, Frederick,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. He’s the only
person who has seen me at my worst. Broken. Unusable. But I like to keep those moments as infrequent as possible. “You can call the nearest pharmacy in Philadelphia. I’ll pick it up there.”
“I can, but I won’t.”
I let out a long breath as I scan the shelves. “This is not the time to be obdurate. I’m late as it is.”
“First, calm down,” he says, and I hear rustling on the other end. Papers shuffling around maybe. He likes to take notes.
“I am calm,” I say, layering on the complacency in my voice for further effect.
“You just used the word obdurate,” Frederick refutes. “Usually you just refer to me as a stubborn swine. Do you see the difference?”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“Then don’t patronize me,” he rebuts. Normal therapists shouldn’t be
this argumentative, but I’m not a normal patient either. “You remember our conversation right before your freshman year at Penn?”
“We’ve had many conversations, Rick,” I say casually. My fingers skim over two different brands of nasal decongestants. I check the labels for the ingredients.
“The conversation about Adderall, Connor.”
I clench my teeth harder, my back molars aching. Before college, I told Frederick that if I ever came to him for Adderall to deny me the prescription. No matter what. I wanted to succeed in college on my own merits. Without stimulants or enhancers. I wanted to prove to myself that I was better than everyone else and that I didn’t need a goddamn pill to do it.
“Things have changed.”
“Yeah, they have,” he agrees. “You’re in your first year at grad school. You have a long-term relationship with a girl, and your mother is preparing to hand over Cobalt Inc. to you. And now you have to deal with a reality
show. I fully admit, Connor, you’re able to juggle work and stress better
than ninety-nine percent of people on this planet. But this might be humanly impossible, even for you.”
This isn’t the first time he’s told me that I’m taking on too much, but I don’t have a choice. I want everything. And if I work hard enough, I can have it all. That’s always been how my life runs; I refuse to believe this is any different.
I grab the decongestant with the highest milligram dosage of
pseudoephedrine and then walk further down the aisle towards the caffeine supplements.
“I agree, it’s not humanly possible. At least not without losing some sleep. And going through my day, like a body without a brain, half-coherent and lazy-eyed, is not an option for me. I need stimulants.”
“What happened to never succumbing to frat boy tricks?” “Guilting me? Really, Rick? Isn’t that a little low for you?”
“You’re the one that told me to use whatever means necessary to talk you out of it,” he says. “There was a time in your life where you’d rather jump off a bridge than take Adderall. I know things have changed, but just think about that for me, okay?”
I stare at the caffeine supplements, trying to unbury an alternate path. But I see none. To have it all, I must sacrifice something. That something begins with sleep.
“If you don’t prescribe me Adderall, then I’ll be purchasing pure ephedrine on the internet,” I threaten. Buying pills on the internet is dangerous. I can imagine all the other unknown, untested ingredients accidentally laced in them.
I’m smarter than Frederick, and he’s aware of this fact. A long time ago, he made me agree to be honest to a fault. To never manipulate him.
I won’t. Which is why this isn’t a bluff.
“What are you taking right now?” The tone in his voice has changed considerably. It’s tempered like his syllables are carefully placed. He’s concerned, and I don’t ask how he knows I’m grabbing medicine off a shelf.
He’s had twelve years inside my head.
“Decongestants and 5 Hour Energy.” I bring the items to the counter and the attendant rings me up at a sluggish pace. I have to show my ID for the decongestants, and she gives me a long, harsh stare. Yes, it’s a little
suspicious buying these items together. But I’m twenty-fucking-four. Not a child.
“That’s a trick that teenagers use to get high, you do realize this?” Frederick says over the phone, still trying to convince me to stop.
I take the paper bag from the attendant and leave the store, the bells on the door clinking together on my way out.
“I’m driving,” I refute. “I can either take stimulants or cause an accident. Would you like a four-car pile-up on your conscience?”
“How long have you been awake?” he asks.
“Isn’t that the question you should have started with?” I uncap the pill bottle and toss a couple into my mouth and wash them down with a swig of the 5 Hour Energy.
“Start answering me straight or I’m hanging up on you,” he says sternly. I roll my eyes. Frederick has his limits, even with me. I lean back in the car seat, waiting for the pills to kick in to where my eyelids don’t feel like lead.
“37 hours.”
“So you broke two of your rules tonight.” “I haven’t taken Adderall yet.”
“No, but you took something.”
I don’t say anything. I wait for Frederick’s obligatory advice that arrives about now.
“You have to give something up,” he tells me. “And it shouldn’t affect your health. So start looking at things in your life that aren’t necessary.”
What would that be? Cobalt Inc. is my birthright. And the only aspiration I ever had was to get an MBA from Wharton. Is my dream not necessary?
So that leaves Rose and the reality show. They’re intertwined. To have one, I must have the other. Rose’s necessity may be called into question.
One doesn’t need a partner to live. To succeed. But Rose is not something I’m ever willing to let go. Necessary or not. She’s mine.
“My life is filled with essentials,” I tell Frederick.
There’s a long, strained silence that pulls over the phone. I wait it out.
When Frederick finally speaks, he sounds a little defeated but otherwise as calm as me. “I’ll order the Adderall, but the prescription won’t be filled until tomorrow. Can you text or call when you make it back to Philly?” He must be picturing that four-car pile-up.
“Of course.”
“Okay, great.” He doesn’t sound enthused.
After a few more words, we hang up. And I assess my level of consciousness. Steady hands. Clear vision. Full attention.
I’m finally awake.
* * *
By the time I climb the brick stairs of the townhouse, the promo has already aired. So I prepare myself for what I may find. The worst case scenario: Scott has seduced Rose somehow—his arm wrapped around her while she’s in a vulnerable state.
My adrenaline is already spiked from the decongestant cocktail. Add in this unnatural fear—and my hand shakes before I turn the knob.
As soon as I open the door, my fear disintegrates into self-assurance.
Scott and Rose aren’t tangled on the couch together. She’s not crying in his arms.
The living room is in an uproar. A chair is flipped over. Pillows have been thrown and scattered all along the hardwood. Rose has her heels in her hands, and she swats them at Scott like they’re swords. But she’s being restrained by both Daisy and Lily, who grip her waist, tugging her back.
I hate questioning my resolve to overcome bad odds, and I’m glad to have it back one-hundred fucking percent.
I shut the door behind me, but no one hears my entrance. Lo is too busy spewing sharp insults that bleed my ears. Rose is violently cursing, layering on expletives like cocksucker, son of a bitch, womanizer, dick, bastard, dipshit. I hear castrate five or six times.
Scott has his hands defensively in the air, his back literally up against
the wall furthest from the television. But he wears the biggest self-satisfied grin.
This is drama he created.
The cameras dance around the living room. Around Ryke who clenches and unclenches his fist, one hand protectively on his brother’s shoulder.
Then around my girlfriend who has completely lost her shit.
Everyone is screaming over each other.
I calmly walk straight ahead, towards the chaos. Rose slips out of her sisters’ clutch, and she takes the opportunity to lunge at Scott, her heels barred. I slide into the space between them, and the sharp point of her heel digs into my chest.
My jaw muscles spasm, the only sign that it fucking hurt.
Her eyes widen in horror, and she drops her four-inch heels immediately, the shoes clattering to the floor. And then, just as quickly, her gaze becomes hot and ill-tempered. She points an accusatory finger at Scott. “He’s a—”
“Douchebag? A pig? A fucktwat?”
She places her hands on her hips, fuming. I rub her arm, and she begins to calm. But hate is still present in her eyes.
My gaze flits between each of my friends. Their bodies begin to relax when I look at them individually, the tension in their muscles slowly loosening. Lo actually shuts his mouth, and Ryke unknowingly releases his fist.
People believe I have some sort of magic hold over others. That I can
cause crowds to part without asking. All I have to do is stand at the edge of a mass and they’ll slowly, effortlessly make a path for me. I can calm the most restless soul if I choose to, and it’s not because I’m gifted with some inane supernatural ability.
My power is in my confidence. It’s that simple.
Their belief that it’s something more—that it’s something greater—is what makes the effect so strong. They need me to be their sturdy unbending fortress.
So here I am.
“Let me watch the commercial,” I say. And then we can decide whether Scott deserves a heel to the fucking face.
I pick up Rose’s shoes while Lily retrieves the remote. Rose reaches out for them, her nose scrunching at the hardwood that’s most likely clean. But to Rose—it’s not clean enough.
There’s such malice in her features. I envision her impaling him in the eye. As much as I hate Scott—I don’t want her to blind him. So I retract my arm, keeping the heels in a firm hand. “I changed my mind.”
She gapes. “Give those back, Richard!” She doesn’t want to walk barefoot around the townhouse. Fine. I lift her easily in my arms, cradling her body, and she inhales sharply. But instead of arguing with me, she holds onto my bicep. My eyes fall to her breasts that rise with her heavy breath, and I internally smile.
I have the girl.
In my arms. Dizzy at my touch. I could have walked into something so much worse.
I carry her to the couch and set her down long-ways. She tucks her legs to the side, her dress rising to her thighs, despite her efforts to keep the hem to her knees. When I should be focused on the television, I ache to see all of her again. The curve of her waist, her erect pink nipples, her bare ass and her mouth wide and full of my cock.
She meets my gaze for a second, and we don’t have to say a single word. She knows what’s on my mind. She can see the longing in my eyes, even if everyone else can’t. She glances at my belt, and my lips rise as I
take a seat next to her.
I sit so close that I can practically hear her heart pounding out of her chest. I lean over to grab the remote from Lily, and as I do so, my mouth
nears Rose’s ear. And I whisper, “I’m going to tie you up again.” I smile at Lily. “Thank you.”
Her sister goes back to Lo, who’s on a chair, and she lounges against his body.
Rose is stiff, but it’s not out of fear. Her thighs press tightly together, and I rest my arm across her lap, my hand on the bareness of her leg. As I
switch on the television, she scoots closer and leans her head on my shoulder, trying to relax, but I know she’s imagining my belt, her wrists, our bed.
I want to make her so wet that she begs for me—that my name is the only one on her mind, the only thing she can possibly utter. I want to hear her scream in wild, crazed ecstasy. I want her to see how perfect we are for each other—mind, body, soul. No words this time. Just actions.
“You have to rewind,” Rose tells me. She tries to reach out for the remote, but I pull it away from her grasp.
She glares. “Vous devez toujours avoir le control.” You always have to be in control.
I try to contain a larger grin. “Vous aimez quand j’ai le control.” You love when I’m in control.
Her lips tighten, but she watches me carefully the way I do her. “C’est encore à prouver.” That has yet to be proven.
I rub the smoothness of her silky leg. “Ne t’inquites pas. Bientot ca sera un fait.” Don’t worry. I’ll make it a fact soon.
“Hey,” Ryke cuts in. “No fucking French.”
“Yeah,” Lo says, “Lily wants to hear you guys talk dirty in English.” He adds a smile to his girlfriend.
She turns beet-red at his admission. “You weren’t supposed to tell them that,” she whispers, still loud enough for us to hear. But she doesn’t seem to know that. “It was a secret.”
“Aw, love, it was too good to keep.” He kisses her on the lips, and he eyes the camera for a second while his hand slips up her muscle shirt, no bra underneath. Not that she’s particularly top-heavy. Rose has the biggest
breasts of her sisters and a fuller ass, wider hips. I could stare at her all day and have no problem getting hard.
I rewind to the beginning of the promo spot and press play. Everyone goes quiet as the commercial begins with all of us standing in front of a white backdrop. We shot the footage at a studio in Philly not long ago.
We were told to just act like ourselves while the cameras were rolling, and after thirty minutes of being ignored by makeup artists and gaffers, we all naturally fell into our roles. No acting required. It was real—even from me.
The commercial starts by panning down the row of seven, Scott on the end. The footage cuts to close-ups, starting from the furthest person on the right.
On screen, Daisy does a handstand, her white T-shirt falling down to reveal her bare stomach and green lacy bra. She sticks out her tongue with a playful smile. A caption appears right over her breasts.
Daredevil.
And then Ryke pushes her legs from behind, and she falls over with a laugh. On his chest, the caption scrolls the word: Jackass.
So they’re labeling us.
The thought is silenced as the promo moves quickly. Next in line are Lo and Lily. He has her tangled in his arms, and his mouth meshes against hers as they kiss hungrily, passionately, a desire so intense that it’s almost hard to watch. It seems too intimate and too personal.
At the same time, the words Sex Addict and Alcoholic float across their bodies.
And then here comes me, Rose, and Scott. Rose looks mildly pissed off, her eyes ablaze—which is normal. But she’s turned towards me, our bodies pulled together by something magnetically strong, and as I lean in to whisper in her ear, her face ignites.
I can’t even remember what I said. I could have easily disagreed with one of her favorite feminists or I could have told her that her hair was pretty.
In the video, she shoves my arm. Twice. Waiting for me to get angry like her. Wanting to provoke me.
I just grin.
The word Smartass quickly hits my body onscreen.
On the couch, right here, I hold in a laugh that no one will appreciate.
But I find this so fucking amusing. And what are they going to call Scott—a womanizer? No, that’s far too kind. Maybe something like—Scumbag Motherfucking Producer (see also: Liar).
Beside her, in the commercial, Scott’s eyes fall to her breasts.
I didn’t notice that before, and any sort of amusement I felt suddenly flits away. How could I have missed that? I also didn’t notice Rose…
She glances at Scott, ever so briefly. The attention is enough for him to tilt his head and sigh.
Please, this is a load of—
And then his caption appears. Heartthrob.
I choke on a laugh. That’s five levels of ridiculous. So he’s the white knight knocking on her tower. The hero. And I’m what the one who locked her there. It’s wrong. But it’s not necessarily backwards—I’m not the hero.
I’m the king to Rose’s queen.
And then the camera begins to slowly zoom in on Rose while both Scott and I stare down at her, painting the love triangle he so desperately wanted.
Her caption pops up in big bold letters on her body.
Virgin.
I frown. Why would this upset her? Since we were fourteen, she’s never been ashamed of being a virgin. She’s never wanted other women to feel as
though they have to lose it in their twenties—that holding onto your virginity post-college makes you unwanted. She’s been proud of the fact that she’s waited. Being ashamed of this now makes no sense to me. Unless she’s more pissed by being labeled something at all.
That seems right.
The promo ends with the title logo for Princesses of Philly, and below, a tagline scrolls:
Get inside the Calloway sisters this February.
It was short. Only thirty-seconds. And it’s enough to resurface hostile emotions. So I stand calmly before anyone starts screaming.
Lily shifts on Loren’s lap and says, “I wasn’t the only one who thought the tagline was dirty, right?”
She’s completely serious. And it almost lightens the mood.
Lo nods to Rose. “Good thing you don’t give two shits about being a twenty-three-year-old virgin.”
“That’s not the problem,” she says. I know her well. She meets my gaze while I stand in front of the television that’s mounted above the fireplace. “He stereotyped all of us with one word, as though we’re caricatures.” She’s afraid of being made to look like a fool. But people have been stereotyping the Calloway girls on gossip blogs for months. This isn’t any different.
“So?” I say to her.
Her mouth falls. She thought I’d be on her side. When she’s wrong, I’m not afraid to disagree.
“People label you the moment they meet you,” I tell her. “You’re an ice cold bitch. You’re a man-hating prude, a rich stuck-up brat. They only tell a fraction of the truth, and if you let them hurt you, you let them win.”
Everyone settles down. No one wants to feed their stereotype either, and I think they’re beginning to understand that if they throw tantrums, they’re each going to look as two-dimensional as Scott wants them to be. They’d each fill the “rich kid snobbery” part well. That image would hurt many of them.
Rose’s lips tighten at the “man-hating” line. That one did sting her. I almost regret adding it in my explanation. “You’re a conceited asshole,” she tells me.
“You love me.”
She shakes her head but her lips lift. “Stop.” “Stop what?”
“Being right.” She groans and leans back against the couch in a huff. “I hate that we’re all so worked up over it and you say a few words, and now everything makes sense again.”
Lo rises with Lily in his arms. “He has a gift.”
“Given by me,” I say. I forget the cameras are even in the room until I hear the zoom of Savannah’s Canon as she focuses on me while Brett’s
camera is on Scott. The blond-haired producer remains by the wall, glaring.
I came in and did exactly what he didn’t want. I calmed every single fucking person.
I flicked over his rook, his bishop, and protected my queen.
I mouth, Don’t fuck with me. These five people mean more to me than words can express. I’ve never once felt like I had a real family.
But with them—I know I do.
