Sweet Rome
Page 68
I’d told someone. For the first time in twenty-one years, I’d told someone what my folks had fought so hard to protect, and my hands began to shake with the enormity of what I’d just done.
“W-what?” Molly whispered, her eyes huge with surprise, pulling me back to the here and now.
Skirting a finger down her cheek, needing the support, I repeated, “Because. I’m. Not. Hers. You wanted to know so badly why they hate me. Well, that’s why.”
“No…” I could see the disbelief. No one knew. No one had ever f**king known. It was a secret I was meant to take to the grave.
Molly’s eyes darted around the room and her hands cupped her mouth, tears dripping down onto her cheeks. The slow burn of antagonism built as I thought of my folks, but my girl needed to understand.
Stepping back out of her embrace, I confessed. “Momma was barren. The f**kin’ bitch was barren. The one thing she needed to be able to do as the perfect wife was breed, and she couldn’t deliver, couldn’t give the great Prince Oil tycoon of Alabama an heir.”
“Ohmigod, Rome—” she cried, her head shaking back and forth. But I was on a roll, my untold story unstoppable, now set free.
“They couldn’t adopt because that would be an embarrassment, right? They couldn’t get a surrogate and risk all of Tuscaloosa knowing she was unable to have kids. But, hey, fate decided to intervene just in time.”
I laughed, but there was no amusement in my mind, no humor to find in this damned messed-up story. “One of my daddy’s many paid whores turned up on their doorstep, pregnant with a child she sure didn’t want but was willing to hand over at its birth to his biological father… for a good price.”
Molly stumbled, her eyes fixed on mine as she put two and two together.
“Yeah, Mol. It was me. My father got a private paternity test and I was his, the f**kin’ heir to his fortune. The whore had one stipulation, though. They had to keep the name she’d given me. She wanted control, to play some sick, twisted game with her most frequent customer, probably pissed she would never be more than a f**k to him. My name was a lifelong reminder of where I came from, and my mother despised it, despised me on sight.”
“Romeo,” she whispered, sympathy saddening her face.
“Romeo.” I still hated that f**king name—no Bama in that name.
My legs felt weak. All the fight I’d had for so long drained out like a flood. I couldn’t deal with my parents controlling shit anymore, and I was pretty convinced this would be where Mol checked out too. Hell, who wouldn’t?
Dropping my head, completely done, I hushed out, “So there you have it. I’m the illegitimate child of my father’s slut on the side, but they had to have me, didn’t they? The fact of the matter was my father wanted to keep his assets in the family. He was expected to have children, an heir. My arrival ensured that could still happen. They paid for the whore to have me in secret. Then my folks disappeared for a year, you know, off on some bullshit cruise, and they returned with a new baby—and of course, the great billionaire’s lies were believed.”
Moving to the couch, I used it to support my weight—I hadn’t dared look Mol in the eyes during all of this shit, didn’t want to see my future slipping away. “My momma f**kin’ hates me. I’m a living, breathing reminder that my father was a cheat. But that’s not the only reason they’re like this. They expected a docile, obedient child, who, when they said jump, would ask how high. But not their letdown of a son, right? I ended up being freakishly good at sports and I had my own mind and own dreams—unacceptable for a Prince!”
The more I talked, the more the agony built back up.
“How dare I? How dare I want something for myself after they’d so selflessly taken me in? Taken me in and reminded me every minute of every f**kin’ day that I was the product of a paid f**k. Beat me until I couldn’t even hold a football, let alone throw one—if you’re injured, you can’t play, right? So my daddy made it a frequent thing, a father-son weekly tradition.”
“N-no one helped you? Figured it out?” Molly stuttered out.
The thought made me laugh. “Who’s going to take on a powerful billionaire and question why his kid flinches whenever someone touches him?
“Then to make it worse, their failure of a child is expected to enter the draft for NFL, twice, and was forced to say no, to sacrifice his dreams just in case people found out he’s not really Kathryn Prince’s biological pride and joy. The mass of skeletons must be locked up real tight!”
My voice sounded raw, all of the screaming and the emotion tearing me in two. Finally lifting my head, I stared at Molly, still rooted to the same damn spot, and walking to her, spread my arms wide—I had nothing left to give.
“So there you go, Mol. That’s why my parents hate me and why my being with you has just added to their already mountain-high disappointment of their beloved f**kin’ son.” I worked hard to keep in the tears, didn’t want to expose myself so open, but when my girl edged forward, straightening my clothes with unashamed affection, and pressed closer into my chest, I almost broke. She just made everything better.
“That’s why everyone calls you Rome, not Romeo… why you hate it so much. It reminds you of your past,” she stated, smoothing back my messy hair.
“Yeah,” I rasped out. “My birth momma said if they didn’t keep Romeo, she’d go to the media, expose the story, and they couldn’t have that, so they agreed… reluctantly. Had her sign some contract to keep quiet.”
“W-what?” Molly whispered, her eyes huge with surprise, pulling me back to the here and now.
Skirting a finger down her cheek, needing the support, I repeated, “Because. I’m. Not. Hers. You wanted to know so badly why they hate me. Well, that’s why.”
“No…” I could see the disbelief. No one knew. No one had ever f**king known. It was a secret I was meant to take to the grave.
Molly’s eyes darted around the room and her hands cupped her mouth, tears dripping down onto her cheeks. The slow burn of antagonism built as I thought of my folks, but my girl needed to understand.
Stepping back out of her embrace, I confessed. “Momma was barren. The f**kin’ bitch was barren. The one thing she needed to be able to do as the perfect wife was breed, and she couldn’t deliver, couldn’t give the great Prince Oil tycoon of Alabama an heir.”
“Ohmigod, Rome—” she cried, her head shaking back and forth. But I was on a roll, my untold story unstoppable, now set free.
“They couldn’t adopt because that would be an embarrassment, right? They couldn’t get a surrogate and risk all of Tuscaloosa knowing she was unable to have kids. But, hey, fate decided to intervene just in time.”
I laughed, but there was no amusement in my mind, no humor to find in this damned messed-up story. “One of my daddy’s many paid whores turned up on their doorstep, pregnant with a child she sure didn’t want but was willing to hand over at its birth to his biological father… for a good price.”
Molly stumbled, her eyes fixed on mine as she put two and two together.
“Yeah, Mol. It was me. My father got a private paternity test and I was his, the f**kin’ heir to his fortune. The whore had one stipulation, though. They had to keep the name she’d given me. She wanted control, to play some sick, twisted game with her most frequent customer, probably pissed she would never be more than a f**k to him. My name was a lifelong reminder of where I came from, and my mother despised it, despised me on sight.”
“Romeo,” she whispered, sympathy saddening her face.
“Romeo.” I still hated that f**king name—no Bama in that name.
My legs felt weak. All the fight I’d had for so long drained out like a flood. I couldn’t deal with my parents controlling shit anymore, and I was pretty convinced this would be where Mol checked out too. Hell, who wouldn’t?
Dropping my head, completely done, I hushed out, “So there you have it. I’m the illegitimate child of my father’s slut on the side, but they had to have me, didn’t they? The fact of the matter was my father wanted to keep his assets in the family. He was expected to have children, an heir. My arrival ensured that could still happen. They paid for the whore to have me in secret. Then my folks disappeared for a year, you know, off on some bullshit cruise, and they returned with a new baby—and of course, the great billionaire’s lies were believed.”
Moving to the couch, I used it to support my weight—I hadn’t dared look Mol in the eyes during all of this shit, didn’t want to see my future slipping away. “My momma f**kin’ hates me. I’m a living, breathing reminder that my father was a cheat. But that’s not the only reason they’re like this. They expected a docile, obedient child, who, when they said jump, would ask how high. But not their letdown of a son, right? I ended up being freakishly good at sports and I had my own mind and own dreams—unacceptable for a Prince!”
The more I talked, the more the agony built back up.
“How dare I? How dare I want something for myself after they’d so selflessly taken me in? Taken me in and reminded me every minute of every f**kin’ day that I was the product of a paid f**k. Beat me until I couldn’t even hold a football, let alone throw one—if you’re injured, you can’t play, right? So my daddy made it a frequent thing, a father-son weekly tradition.”
“N-no one helped you? Figured it out?” Molly stuttered out.
The thought made me laugh. “Who’s going to take on a powerful billionaire and question why his kid flinches whenever someone touches him?
“Then to make it worse, their failure of a child is expected to enter the draft for NFL, twice, and was forced to say no, to sacrifice his dreams just in case people found out he’s not really Kathryn Prince’s biological pride and joy. The mass of skeletons must be locked up real tight!”
My voice sounded raw, all of the screaming and the emotion tearing me in two. Finally lifting my head, I stared at Molly, still rooted to the same damn spot, and walking to her, spread my arms wide—I had nothing left to give.
“So there you go, Mol. That’s why my parents hate me and why my being with you has just added to their already mountain-high disappointment of their beloved f**kin’ son.” I worked hard to keep in the tears, didn’t want to expose myself so open, but when my girl edged forward, straightening my clothes with unashamed affection, and pressed closer into my chest, I almost broke. She just made everything better.
“That’s why everyone calls you Rome, not Romeo… why you hate it so much. It reminds you of your past,” she stated, smoothing back my messy hair.
“Yeah,” I rasped out. “My birth momma said if they didn’t keep Romeo, she’d go to the media, expose the story, and they couldn’t have that, so they agreed… reluctantly. Had her sign some contract to keep quiet.”
