Sweet Home
Page 16
He hadn’t slept with Shelly. I was all he thought about, and I couldn’t help but feel a ripple of happiness swell through my heart for the first time in years.
5
I’d been lying awake for four hours watching the shadows from the pine trees dance across the ceiling. This marked the fifth night in a row. I was sleep deprived, frustrated, and so friggin’ confused that I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t sleep, and quite frankly, couldn’t function. Root cause—Romeo “Bullet” Prince.
He’d been away again all week with the Tide in Arkansas, and left straight after our little corridor throwdown, leaving me completely in a tizz about where we stood with one another. It didn’t help that I’d seen pictures of other members of the team making out with girls in seedy nightclubs and frat parties post-match that had been posted on Facebook for the entire world to see, and when I thought of Rome doing the same thing, I felt sick.
Giving up on sleep, I threw back my quilt and walked into the bathroom, stepping into the shower, letting the warm water wake me up.
It didn’t work.
I dropped my head against the cold tile, sighing. I didn’t know what I would do when I saw him again. Ally had told me that the team was due back today, so I’d decided to hide in the one place a superstar jock definitely wouldn’t be—the library.
Within thirty minutes, I’d dressed, gathered my books, and crossed over the large lawn of the quad, basking in the early morning light. Seven a.m. was the perfect time to walk on the main tree-lined path; it was isolated and gave me an opportunity to think, relax, recharge.
I was halfway down the path when the sound of heated arguing drew my attention. At first, all I spotted was a parked Bentley and a tall older man standing in front of the silver car.
He was in front of Romeo—screaming furiously at Romeo.
I sidestepped behind a large tree and watched the argument from the cover of my hiding spot. I could see Romeo was mad, his hands balled into fists and his stance projecting fury. The older man wore a dark suit and his arms flailed in anger, right in Romeo’s face, as he screamed strings of horrid and offensive curses. He edged forward, drew back his fist, and I witnessed Rome take a hard smack to the cheek, his head snapping back at the force. He didn’t retaliate but stood stoic, taking the powerful hit.
“Ohmigod,” I whispered to myself.
I frantically searched around for help, but there was only me… only them. Before I had the chance to run for security, the man in the suit jumped in his Bentley and pulled away with a screech, and I watched as a pumped-up Romeo marched to an extremely large tree and set to punching its trunk over and over, expelling loud grunts before slumping down on the ground, his head falling to his hands. I propped myself against the rough bark of the tree, trying to figure out exactly what I’d just witnessed.
I warred with myself on what to do. Romeo had just been hit, attacked. Peeking around the large oak, I stared at his forlorn figure for several minutes, taking in all his southern gorgeousness bleeding and hurt. My heart ached, and before my brain could really register, my feet were heading automatically in the direction of his secluded spot.
He hadn’t heard me approach, and I crouched down before him, my black sleeveless summer playsuit dirtying in the dried mud. I quietly removed a bottle of water and my old pink rose hankie from my brown messenger bag. At the sound of my rustling, Rome looked up, his mouth dripping with blood, perfect white teeth lost in the scarlet bath.
“Romeo, God…” I whispered as I fought back tears. He didn’t speak, just stared at me numbly.
I unscrewed the cap from the bottle of Evian and lifted his soiled hand towards me, his fingers slack and rough. I poured on the water, cleaning out the cuts, deep cuts full of tree bark and dirt. I dabbed my hankie at the broken skin. He didn’t even flinch.
“Does this hurt?” I asked softly. He shook his head.
When his hand was clean, I edged forward until I was knelt between his slouched legs. I tentatively lifted my hankie to his lips and wiped away the excess blood, finding a large open gash on the corner of his beautiful top lip. I applied pressure and my gaze drifted to his. His brown eyes penetrated mine through the barrier of my glasses, and I saw conflict and desolation flicker across the surface.
When his lip stopped bleeding, I passed him the bottle of water. “Swill your mouth out, Rome. That blood can’t taste too good.”
He took the bottle robotically, doing everything I instructed. I hunkered down beside him on the dirt, sharing the makeshift backrest of the tree. I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t want to risk making him worse. I just didn’t want him to be alone.
He eventually relaxed his rigid posture and stared off into the distance. I couldn’t take the sadness anymore, and seeing he needed comfort, I reached down, folding his good hand in mine. He whipped his head to our entwined fingers and subtly angled his shoulder even closer. I knew we had unresolved issues, especially after our… whatever the hell that was in the corridor, but right now, I could only think of supporting him however he might need me.
Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, Romeo spoke. “Hey, Mol.”
“Hey, you.”
“How much did you see?”
I laid my head on his shoulder, catching the slight hitch in his breath. “Enough.”
His head fell against the bark, eyes squeezed shut.
“Who was the man in the Bentley?”
“My daddy.”
I lifted my head in utter astonishment. “Your father?”
His head dropped again, avoiding eye contact. I wasn’t sure if it was in embarrassment or extreme sadness.
The silence returned. “You okay?”
He stiffened and rolled his head towards me, anguish in his eyes. “No.”
“You want to talk about it?”
He shook his head firmly.
“Does he hit you a lot?”
Shrugging, he answered, “Don’t get a chance much anymore. He was pissed with somethin’ I’d done. He called me to meet him and… well, you saw the rest.”
I shuffled forward and sat facing him. “What was so bad that he’d strike you like that?”
“Money, disappointment, not being the dutiful son. The usual. He’s never gone that far in public before, though. I’ve never seen him so pissed.”
“But you’re his son! How dare he treat you like that? What the hell have you done to deserve to be punched?”
5
I’d been lying awake for four hours watching the shadows from the pine trees dance across the ceiling. This marked the fifth night in a row. I was sleep deprived, frustrated, and so friggin’ confused that I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t sleep, and quite frankly, couldn’t function. Root cause—Romeo “Bullet” Prince.
He’d been away again all week with the Tide in Arkansas, and left straight after our little corridor throwdown, leaving me completely in a tizz about where we stood with one another. It didn’t help that I’d seen pictures of other members of the team making out with girls in seedy nightclubs and frat parties post-match that had been posted on Facebook for the entire world to see, and when I thought of Rome doing the same thing, I felt sick.
Giving up on sleep, I threw back my quilt and walked into the bathroom, stepping into the shower, letting the warm water wake me up.
It didn’t work.
I dropped my head against the cold tile, sighing. I didn’t know what I would do when I saw him again. Ally had told me that the team was due back today, so I’d decided to hide in the one place a superstar jock definitely wouldn’t be—the library.
Within thirty minutes, I’d dressed, gathered my books, and crossed over the large lawn of the quad, basking in the early morning light. Seven a.m. was the perfect time to walk on the main tree-lined path; it was isolated and gave me an opportunity to think, relax, recharge.
I was halfway down the path when the sound of heated arguing drew my attention. At first, all I spotted was a parked Bentley and a tall older man standing in front of the silver car.
He was in front of Romeo—screaming furiously at Romeo.
I sidestepped behind a large tree and watched the argument from the cover of my hiding spot. I could see Romeo was mad, his hands balled into fists and his stance projecting fury. The older man wore a dark suit and his arms flailed in anger, right in Romeo’s face, as he screamed strings of horrid and offensive curses. He edged forward, drew back his fist, and I witnessed Rome take a hard smack to the cheek, his head snapping back at the force. He didn’t retaliate but stood stoic, taking the powerful hit.
“Ohmigod,” I whispered to myself.
I frantically searched around for help, but there was only me… only them. Before I had the chance to run for security, the man in the suit jumped in his Bentley and pulled away with a screech, and I watched as a pumped-up Romeo marched to an extremely large tree and set to punching its trunk over and over, expelling loud grunts before slumping down on the ground, his head falling to his hands. I propped myself against the rough bark of the tree, trying to figure out exactly what I’d just witnessed.
I warred with myself on what to do. Romeo had just been hit, attacked. Peeking around the large oak, I stared at his forlorn figure for several minutes, taking in all his southern gorgeousness bleeding and hurt. My heart ached, and before my brain could really register, my feet were heading automatically in the direction of his secluded spot.
He hadn’t heard me approach, and I crouched down before him, my black sleeveless summer playsuit dirtying in the dried mud. I quietly removed a bottle of water and my old pink rose hankie from my brown messenger bag. At the sound of my rustling, Rome looked up, his mouth dripping with blood, perfect white teeth lost in the scarlet bath.
“Romeo, God…” I whispered as I fought back tears. He didn’t speak, just stared at me numbly.
I unscrewed the cap from the bottle of Evian and lifted his soiled hand towards me, his fingers slack and rough. I poured on the water, cleaning out the cuts, deep cuts full of tree bark and dirt. I dabbed my hankie at the broken skin. He didn’t even flinch.
“Does this hurt?” I asked softly. He shook his head.
When his hand was clean, I edged forward until I was knelt between his slouched legs. I tentatively lifted my hankie to his lips and wiped away the excess blood, finding a large open gash on the corner of his beautiful top lip. I applied pressure and my gaze drifted to his. His brown eyes penetrated mine through the barrier of my glasses, and I saw conflict and desolation flicker across the surface.
When his lip stopped bleeding, I passed him the bottle of water. “Swill your mouth out, Rome. That blood can’t taste too good.”
He took the bottle robotically, doing everything I instructed. I hunkered down beside him on the dirt, sharing the makeshift backrest of the tree. I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t want to risk making him worse. I just didn’t want him to be alone.
He eventually relaxed his rigid posture and stared off into the distance. I couldn’t take the sadness anymore, and seeing he needed comfort, I reached down, folding his good hand in mine. He whipped his head to our entwined fingers and subtly angled his shoulder even closer. I knew we had unresolved issues, especially after our… whatever the hell that was in the corridor, but right now, I could only think of supporting him however he might need me.
Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, Romeo spoke. “Hey, Mol.”
“Hey, you.”
“How much did you see?”
I laid my head on his shoulder, catching the slight hitch in his breath. “Enough.”
His head fell against the bark, eyes squeezed shut.
“Who was the man in the Bentley?”
“My daddy.”
I lifted my head in utter astonishment. “Your father?”
His head dropped again, avoiding eye contact. I wasn’t sure if it was in embarrassment or extreme sadness.
The silence returned. “You okay?”
He stiffened and rolled his head towards me, anguish in his eyes. “No.”
“You want to talk about it?”
He shook his head firmly.
“Does he hit you a lot?”
Shrugging, he answered, “Don’t get a chance much anymore. He was pissed with somethin’ I’d done. He called me to meet him and… well, you saw the rest.”
I shuffled forward and sat facing him. “What was so bad that he’d strike you like that?”
“Money, disappointment, not being the dutiful son. The usual. He’s never gone that far in public before, though. I’ve never seen him so pissed.”
“But you’re his son! How dare he treat you like that? What the hell have you done to deserve to be punched?”
