Sweet Home

by Tillie Cole

  I guffawed. “Confidence, my arse! The whole college knows you use girls for sex, which, quite honestly, makes me feel sick. From what I saw the other night with her, you did then too, after you confided to me that you didn’t like her, after you connected so deeply with me. Where’s the morality in that? Couldn’t resist her open legs, I take it?”

  He exhaled a humourless laugh and inched forward. I stood my ground, giving the impression of confidence.

  He backed me into a dark, secluded corner. “Why do you care who I fuck? What’s it to you?”

  I glared at him, remaining silent for several seconds before hissing, “It isn’t anything to me.”

  He sneered in anger and slammed his flat palm against the wall above me. “You’re lyin’.”

  I felt as though my stomach was on fire with enmity, fists balling against my books. “I’m not lying. It has nothing to do with me who you fuck, as you so eloquently put it!”

  Rome moved his face an inch closer. “Bullshit! I don’t fuckin’ believe you!” I pushed at his chest with one hand; he didn’t budge.

  “I said I don’t believe you! Tell me why the fuck you care and don’t fuckin’ lie!” he thundered again.

  He’d completely blocked any exit and I released an exasperated moan. “Fine! I care because you kissed me! You kissed me like you had no other choice, damnit! I don’t like being just another plaything when I trusted you with me. I never do that and now I remember exactly why!”

  His hard chest scraped achingly against mine and his lips parted, expelling sharp controlled bursts of hot breath. “For your information, I didn’t screw her. In fact, I told her in no uncertain terms that I was done for good. What you’d said to me made sense… about livin’ my own life. You got through to me. You… affected me. And get this straight… you are no one’s plaything, Shakespeare. I may fuck around, but I wouldn’t fuck around on you.”

  I opened my mouth to speak when he pressed his index finger over my lips, his eyes tight in warning. “You’re brave, Shakespeare, speakin’ to me like this. I don’t… tolerate it from anyone. People ‘round here know not to approach me. They have the sense to leave things alone.”

  I knocked his hand away, narrowing my eyes. “Are you threatening me?”

  He smiled darkly and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to punch him in the face or submit my body to his control and see what came next.

  “Not threatenin’, Shakespeare, commendin’. I’m findin’ you and that mouth of yours a real turn-on. But I’m more interested in teachin’ you how to keep it shut.”

  My heart jolted and heat spread between my thighs. I fought my traitorous reaction with everything I had. “Save that kind of talk for when you screw Shelly again.”

  “I told you I didn’t fuckin’ touch her!”

  “That’s not what she’s been saying.”

  “I could care less what she says. I thought you were different, Mol. Why make a dig about Shelly or football after what I’d told you about things I was goin’ through?” He actually seemed genuinely disappointed in me.

  Guilt and doubt crept into my chest, and I rubbed my throbbing temple. “Look, I’m just in a crappy mood. I shouldn’t have come at you like that and I apologise for betraying your confidence. It was bad manners on my part. I was pissed off at you, have been pissed off at you for days. I don’t know how to be around you. You… confuse me.”

  We resorted back to silence. Romeo was still glowering down at me as though he were going to tear me in two with his bare hands and kept me cornered with his bulking frame. I tried to move around him when he grabbed my arm in his large hand. “Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”

  I exhaled slowly. “I’m leaving. I’m done with this… done with us and whatever the hell just happened.”

  I tried to shuffle past him a second time when he growled, “You’re fuckin’ drivin’ me insane, Shakespeare!” He wrapped his free hand around the back of my neck, pulling me forward until his lips found their intended target against mine.

  He wasn’t kind, careful, or considerate. He was taking what he wanted, no thought for me, and I loved it, loved that he took complete control and mastered my body.

  I dropped my books to the floor along with any lingering inhibitions and my hands were no longer able to do anything but grip onto his shirt and hold on for the ride.

  On a moan, he twisted me in his arms and pushed me against the wall, slamming my back against the hard cement, letting me feel his arousal against my stomach. His tongue wrestled with mine, and he drew out all of my latent need with every wet lash.

  With an exasperated sigh, he broke us apart, his tan skin a scolding temperature to the touch. “Fuck, Mol, why can’t I get you outta my head? You’re all I fuckin’ think about and I don’t know how to deal.”

  “You do?” I rasped.

  His wild eyes fixed on mine. “Every minute. Of. Every. Day.”

  Rome stepped back, giving me much needed space from his stifling presence. I needed to leave; I couldn’t think straight. I bent to get my books and when I straightened, Rome stood with his hands behind his head, unbridled hunger in his dark eyes.

  He licked his bottom lip ever so slowly and I wished more than anything that I was the plump piece of flesh. “I don’t know what to do about you. It’s rattlin’ me and I don’t like it. I’ve never gotten like this over some girl.” He tipped his head, assessing. “But I don’t think you’re just some girl. I’ve thought that from the minute I saw you all flustered in the hall on the first day of classes. Christ, I’ve haven’t been able to taste anythin’ but you since we kissed at the damn initiation.” The dark flame that fuelled his already midnight eyes almost made me whimper with longing.

  So I did what I do best when I can’t cope with a situation.

  I ran.

  “I-I n-need to get to the library.” I rushed out in a nervous stammer and dashed for the exit. I was shaking and confused, angry, but so unbelievably turned on. I was worried by my apparent fondness for his assertiveness. On top of everything that had happened between us, that bothered me the most.

  As I was opening the doors to fresh air, I risked a glance back.

  Big mistake.

  Romeo stood in the centre of the hallway, watching me with corded, folded arms.

  I slapped on the handle when his hard voice rendered me immobile. “This is far from over, Shakespeare… far from fuckin’ over!”

  I panicked again at the immediate rush of lust that built within me and picked up my pace, deciding to ditch the library and go straight home. I was on the verge of collapsing, and I needed the sanctuary of my room.

  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 mi
nutes, 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?”

  A closed mouth ensured he didn’t say anything in response. I could tell he wasn’t going to talk; his lips were locked tight in refusal. I took his hand again and he gripped mine, making sure I couldn’t let go.

  He appeared so lost, his usual hard exterior split open, exposing his weakness. I needed to change the topic, gradually reseal the scar.

  “How was your game in Arkansas?”

  A small flicker of relief flashed across his face at my turn in conversation. “We won. No help from me though.”

  “You have a bad game?”

  He licked his lip, prodding at the fresh cut, and picked up a fallen twig, snapping it in his clenched fist. “Fuckin’ nightmare of a game.”

  “Well, you’re only human.”

  “I’ve never had such a bad start to a season in my entire life. My senior year, the one in which I’ll enter the draft, and it’s all goin’ to hell in a hand basket.”

  “Why is it going so bad?”

  “Because I can’t complete even one of my passes. I’m lettin’ the team and fans down. My parents won’t back the fuck off over Shelly—you just witnessed my daddy’s insistence on that issue. She’s being a bigger leech than normal and I’m constantly fightin’ her off. My head is all over the place, I can’t sleep or get focused, and thinkin’ about a certain English girl keeps me up every night. Every fuckin’ night. She’s plaguin’ my dreams.”

  He pulled our hands to his unshaven cheek and ran them up and down his rough stubble.

  “Yeah, I know what that’s like,” I whispered, watching as my fingertips brushed past his mouth, completely breathless at his confession.

  “I thought about our last meetin’ nonstop while I was away.” Rome’s voice was almost inaudible, as if admitting to committing a cardinal sin. He seemed nervous, not an emotion I’d seen from him before. I guess actually liking a girl was a whole new world to the king of meaningless sex.

  “Yeah. Me too. It’s been… different to have my head filled with a certain Bama hottie and not Dante, Descartes, or Kant.”

  He nudged me with his knee, amusement brightening his dead eyes. “You think I’m a hottie?”

  I blushed and nudged him back. “You’re all right.”

  Peeking at me from under his long lashes, he cracked a smile. “Where were you goin’ at this time of mornin’ when you saw this hottie gettin’ a beatdown?”

  “Rome—”

  “Answer the damn question, Shakespeare.”

  I shook my head. Hard Romeo began to rouse from his sleep. “The library. I have notes I need to write up for Professor Ross. She has an office there where I can work undisturbed. I saw… what happened with you and your daddy and thought you needed me more than the exciting world of academia does right now.”

  With a pat on my leg, he pulled me to stand, our hands still clasped tight. “Let’s go.”

  “Where to?”
>
  “The library. I’m gonna help you. We can’t let the world of academia down now, can we?”

  “Romeo… are you sure you don’t want to go home or do something else? We could talk more if you’d like. Whatever you need.”

  Losing his jovial tone, he stressed, “No. We’re gonna go to the library and I’m gonna help you with your paper.” He wasn’t to be trifled with. He wasn’t far from snapping and I could see it, untapped aggression waiting impatiently at the surface for its chance to pounce. He needed the distraction and I thought it best to take him with me to save some poor fellow student from meeting the end of Romeo’s fist when he finally slipped over the edge.

  “You’re going to help me with philosophy?”

  A moody pout formed on his lips. “Hey, just ‘cause I’m a jock don’t mean I’m stupid.” He wrapped his arms around my shoulders from behind. “For your information, I’m acin’ that class. I may be able to show you a thing or two.”

  Stepping away, he put a finger to his cheek, conveying he was deep in thought. “For example, Immanuel Kant was a real piss-ant who was very rarely stable.”

  A huge grin spread on my face and I blurted out a loud laugh, singing, “Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar who could think you under the table.”

  He paced in before me in a lecturer-like fashion. “Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle, and Hobbes was fond of his dram.” He bowed playfully for me to go next.

  “And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart. I drink, therefore I am.’”

  I covered my giggle with my hand, feeling light and flirtatious, and Rome, with a stunning smile, held up his hand for a high-five. I slapped it with gusto.

  “So you’re a Monty Python fan?” I asked excitedly.

  “Well, you can’t study philosophy and not be familiar with ‘Bruces’ Philosophers Song.’”

  “I agree, but I never pegged you for a British comedy nut.”