by Tillie Cole
“You think it was smart to sneak out and come here when you’d already been told not to?”
I didn’t reply, was too scared, too angry to reply.
“Answer me!” he shouted, hitting the steering wheel with his large hand.
“N-no, s-sir, it wasn’t smart,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice from breaking. He would just laugh if I cried; it always just made things worse. He said it made me weak.
My daddy hated weakness.
“You want folk around here spreading the word on how good you are at football?”
I did, but that wasn’t the answer I was expected to give.
“No, sir.”
“Then from now on, do as you’re told! How many times do we have to go through this? I have plans for Prince Oil, plans that you will need to see out. Football is unacceptable, boy!”
We drove the rest of the way home in silence. When the Bentley pulled to a stop in the driveway, I rushed into the house and up to my room, curling into a small ball on top of my bed, waiting for what I knew would happen next.
And it did. It was the one constant in my life.
After a few minutes, I heard the creaking of the old stairs, and a moment later, the bedroom door opened and my daddy entered my room, jacket and tie off, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows. He was always calm, collected. I’d never really seen him flip. The quieter he was, the more scared I became.
He was deathly quiet today.
I held in a cry as he glared at me and snapped a thin black leather belt in his hands. “Get up, Romeo. This will be over quicker if you don’t put up a fight. You need to be punished for disobeying my orders.”
Taking a deep breath, I got to my feet and stood in the center of the room, eyes squeezed shut, wrists held out, waiting for the lashing I knew was about to come. I would take the pain. Football was what I wanted and I wouldn’t give up on that dream, not for anything…
I snapped my eyes open, body stiffening at the old memory that haunted my dreams, my heart pounding in my chest and my breathing erratic.
It was only a dream… It was only a dream, I told myself over and over again as I pushed my long, sweaty hair from my eyes, breathing in deeply through my nose, trying like hell to calm the fuck down.
My alarm cut through my panic, the bastard thing blaring out its annoying tone at a stupidly high volume.
“Uhh! Bullet, turn it off,” a female voice moaned.
Dreading who I would find next to me this morning, I looked down, following the sound of the voice. Sprawled on my bare chest, was… was… fuck if I knew. Some random chick.
That familiar sick feeling burst in my stomach and I squeezed my eyes shut.
Hell, I needed to stop with the drinking and the fucking. This was my year—time to get serious, no more distractions, no more feeling like shit.
Lifting my head cautiously, I tested the severity of my hangover and winced at the bright morning sun shining through the window. Jesus, what the hell did I drink last night?
The chick groaned again at the movement, and I pushed her off me, her hung-over ass flopping to the mattress as I slid off the edge of my bed, sighing in disgust as I spotted the used rubber still on my dick. Nice.
Looking back, I tried to remember something… anything, a small bit of info about who the hell she was. There was nothing, just fragmented flashes of a party and being led to my room… then sweet. Fuck. All.
Same shit, different day.
I stood, stretching out my arms. Seeing a crumpled red dress on the wooden floor, I picked it up and threw it at Jane Doe’s naked ass. “I’m going to shower. Feel free to let yourself out.”
She muttered something unintelligible and gradually awoke at those words. Doing what I said, she put on her slip of a dress, scooped up her shoes, and smiled in satisfaction as she left the room. “Catch you later, Bullet. It was worth the wait. All the rumors about you were true.”
Hell, treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen. Or be the starting QB for the Tide and do whatever the fuck you like. They still come running back for more. It was a novelty to fuck the great Bullet Prince.
After my shower, I threw on my training shorts and shirt and, grabbing my cleats, headed down the stairs of the frat house. Austin and Reece were already waiting for my lazy ass in the kitchen, so I grabbed my shades off the island and slid them on, flipping a huge fuckin’ bird to Austin, who was laughing at my sorry state as he passed me a protein shake, and we headed out the door.
“Is that chick who left just now yours, Rome?” Reece asked, almost jogging to keep up with Austin and me as we made our way to the gym.
Shrugging, I answered, “She ain’t mine, but all evidence suggests I fucked her.”
“You better’d wrapped that shit up,” Austin scolded.
Damn straight. Last thing I wanted was some wannabe NFL wife trapping me with a kid. “Done deal. Never ride bareback. Evidence was still on my cock this morning. I’m classy like that.”
Austin slapped me on the back, laughing and Reece nudged me in the ribs. “She was hot, man. Remember anything ’bout what she was like? Was she any good?”
Reece. I loved the damn kid, but he needed to get laid more and stop trying for my castoffs. Reece looked about twelve—blond hair, blue eyes—and it felt a whole load of wrong when he talked about screwing chicks. The preppy fucker was one polo shirt short of being on a damn Ralph Lauren ad.
“No fucking idea.” I turned back to Austin, who was smirking at me. “What the hell did we drink last night?”
“More like what didn’t we drink.”
Yeah, that felt more like it. I remember now why I slipped. My folks had called… again, about the bastard engagement, and I’d immediately turned to the Mexican worm. Austin, being my best friend, joined me in getting completely wasted.
“Shit. Coach will have our asses. I fuckin’ stink of tequila,” I groaned.
I knocked back the protein shake in one, ignoring Reece as he grinned and said, “Damn, Bullet. I’m always wishing I was you: never without a girl, the whole damn school following your every move. But when Coach sees you looking like this, he’s gonna make you wish you’d never been born.”
The Abercrombie-and-Fitch little fucker was right; Coach made me pay. Hard. You don’t drink in season without some serious consequences: suicides, hang-cleans, and laps being his chosen form of punishment that day. The Tide was still on two-a-day training, which meant working like a bitch and puking at every task. I ached, I sweated, but I loved every minute of it. It gave me the opportunity to get out my rage, to hit and pummel out my anger… to get through another damn day of this sorry excuse of a life. Ten months left until I could get the heck out from underneath their thumbs, and I was counting down every damn minute.
2
“Momma,” I greeted flatly, seeing her name flash up on my iPhone screen, en route from practice to my classes.
“You need to come to dinner tonight,” she commanded.
I clenched my jaw at her usual icy tone. “Sorry, busy.”
“Then change your plans! The Blairs are coming and you need to be here so we can discuss the engagement, thrash out the details, get the whole arrangement tied up once and for all. Shelly’s hosting her sorority’s initiation of new pledges this evening, but you should be here regardless of her absence.”
“I have practice again tonight. Coach has us on two-a-days. I’ve told you this.”
Silence.
“You will come tonight, Romeo,” she finally replied, her words dripping with authority. I stopped dead, right outside the humanities block. I was already running late for this friggin’ introduction class due to the overrun team meeting, and now Momma was droning on in my ear about this fucking engagement and calling me that bastard name… again. Almost twenty-two and it still made me feel like a kid. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I could feel my tolerance for her shit about to snap.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I focused
on the relaxing feeling of the burning summer sun pounding on my back, attempting to calm myself.
Didn’t work. Nothing ever does.
“Look, I’m going to practice. I’m not coming,” I snapped with finality, slamming my finger on the END button and stuffing the cell in my jeans pocket.
Heading inside the building, I tried to let the blast of air from the air-conditioner cool me the hell down from the usual friggin’ anger boiling me from the inside out. My blood felt like acid pumping through my muscles. But I embraced it—welcomed it even. It was a reminder that I needed to get away from those people, finally break free from their overbearing ways. I’d had too many years of putting up with their degrading crap. I couldn’t take much more.
I sometimes asked myself why I was sticking around. I had my own money, a full scholarship, but the truth was I felt trapped. They completely controlled me and I hated that harsh piece of reality. I had no real family except my folks, and pathetically, I couldn’t bear the thought of being on my own. Plus, I did have some good memories of my daddy before the money changed him. I still remember the first time he took me to his office downtown, showing me off to his colleagues and proudly stating how I would one day be the CEO of Prince Oil, his protégé. I remember feeling important… loved even, but when the years passed and football became my passion, that pride my daddy had felt toward me seemed to fade, and it continued to spiral downward until there was nothing but contempt.
My parents were powerful and ruthless, and truthfully, I was terrified of what they would do if I shamed them publically by cutting myself off. Reputation was everything to the people they mixed with, and they wouldn’t tolerate any humiliation on my part. I only had ten months to get through before I could leave the state, leave them, only ten more months to keep up the charade.
Forcing myself back to the present, I smashed open the second set of doors, hearing the wood splinter against the wall, and stormed down the empty halls, pressure building in my chest with each step at the thought of getting hitched to Shelly.
Shittin’ Shelly Blair.
Christ, I fucked her twice in high school and, stupidly, once freshman year, and she acts like we’re soul mates, in love. I’m not even sure I have the capability to love anyone. Had that shit beaten out of me a long time ago. It’s amazing how little emotion you can feel when you’ve been ripped apart on a daily basis, told you weren’t loved repeatedly, until your heart ceases to feel anything. Well, anything apart from anger—constant physical and verbal abuse just seems to help that shit grow.
My phone vibrated again, but I didn’t look; I knew it would be my daddy, demanding I attend tonight. Momma would have called in the big guns.
I’d answer and he’d tell me my refusal was “Unacceptable, boy!” Then he’d threaten me, blackmail me, tell me how much he and Momma hated me, regretted me, how he could make my life hell if I pushed him too far.
Same ol’ same ol’.
I turned the corner, fists clenched at the thought of having to sit next to Shelly for the next half hour, trapped in a room, no way out of her long-clawed grip, listening to some stuck-up old Brit drone on about damn religious philosophy, of all things. I was too fucking mad. I just couldn’t sit next to Shelly pawing at my arms, rubbing against my leg, hoping to make me hard enough to give in and fuck her after class.
Never. Happening. Again. My cock went limp just looking at her. She thinks she looks hot—all that big hair, expensive plastic tits, and fake red lips. But all I see is a fucking praying mantis, ready to rip me apart.
I set off, head down, toward the classroom, and then I heard it. Shelly’s laugh. The laugh that sounded like a thousand cats being strangled… slowly, painfully, one by one.
I wasn’t proud of what I did next.
Bullet Prince, star quarterback for the Crimson Tide, dived to the right and hid behind a staircase.
I flattened my back against the cold white wall, praying no one would see me hiding like a pussy, when a flash of movement to my right caught my eye. Some chick holding a mass of papers came flying around the corner, muttering to herself, checking her watch, brown curls piled on her head, thick black glasses, and the brightest fucking shoes I’d ever seen.
Neon orange. Christ.
I couldn’t help but crack a smile at her whole package, and I almost felt along my lips just to check it was actually there.
When was the last time I fucking smiled? That is, when was the last time I was smiling because of something other than looking at some asshole I’d knocked clean out on the floor?
Shaking my head in disbelief, I risked a peek around the corner and saw Shelly lock her eyes onto the chick and turn to say something to her friends, a spiteful smile on her lips. I tensed, suddenly feeling protective of the flustered brunette; the poor girl was completely unaware of what was about to go down.
I couldn’t help but stare at her. She looked so fucking tragic as she blew her crazy hair from her thick glasses, scurrying down the long hall, her plastic shoes squeaking against the tiled floor with each hurried step.
I was too preoccupied, hooked on the scene, and realized too late that Shelly was up to something. I could only watch as Shel shouldered into the girl as she passed, causing all her papers to fall to the floor.
Fury possessed me.
She’d always been a bitch, but seeing her do that to that innocent girl just made me pissed beyond measure. Hell, it wouldn’t have taken much, the mood I was in.
Shelly said something to the girl on the floor—I couldn’t hear what—but the brunette never looked up, kept her head down, ignoring what I imagined to be a shitty slight.
Why I ever dipped my stick in that was beyond me. I blamed it on too many head knocks in football. That and being too horny to function. I didn’t understand why Shelly had to treat people so bad. She had everything in the world and still, on occasion, showed moments of being a good person deep down. But those moments weren’t nearly enough to salvage any friendship we’d ever had. I just couldn’t work the girl out.
Stepping out of my hiding spot, I headed to tell Shelly to get the fuck on, but I was too late. She’d already sauntered into class, looking like the cat that got the cream.
As I approached the brunette, she leaned forward to reach for the papers that had landed way out in front, and I almost groaned out loud, my cock springing to life.
Fuck me.
That ass.
That perfect, curvy ass.
I quickly tucked my boner into my waistband and tried to think of something to cool down. Jimmy-Don in a two-piece. Jimmy-Don in a thong. Actually… I smiled derisively. Shelly sucking on my dick… Yeah, deflated like a defective balloon.
Running my hands through my hair, I stopped behind the new chick, avoiding staring at her ass in those short dungarees and those long, tanned legs that were just tempting me to reach out and wrap them around my waist.
Shit. My cock hardened again.
I opened my mouth to ask if she needed help just as she spat, “Fucking arseholes!” to herself and got to her feet. Her glasses crashed to the floor in the process, the shitty frames landing right next to my feet.
Time stopped.
What the hell was that accent? English, maybe? Whatever it was, it was the hottest thing I’d ever heard in my entire sorry life.
Before I could stop it, a loud laugh jumped out of my throat at the sweet, proper voice cussing. She paused, frozen, as she heard me behind her.
Her head bowed, her shoulders bunched, and the sigh she let out said it all—pure defeat. Hell, I knew how she felt.
I reached down and scooped up her glasses, then, holding her arm, spun her to face me.
Jesus. H. Christ.
Large brown eyes, full, juicy pink lips, smooth, clear skin, and a soft blush to her cheeks. She was so close I could smell her skin—sweet, like vanilla.
Damn, I needed to say something, anything, not just stand here like some creepy fucking weirdo.
“Can
you see now?” I muttered, my voice sounding rough even to me.
Her eyes squinted and she looked up. Her lips parted, her eyes studying every part of my face from behind the huge frames. Brown eyes, long blond hair, tanned skin—I had the perfect outer shell, but one fucking bitter center.
I tensed, waiting for it to come, the moment she saw it was me—Rome “Bullet” Prince. The attention would piss me off and then I’d come off like an asshole.
Golden brown eyes drank me in—the usual—and then… nothing.
Snatching the papers from my hands, the chick tried to take off. No stuttered recognition, no flirting, just… rushing to get the hell away from me.
What the—
I wondered for a moment if she didn’t know who I was. But… nah, we were in Bama. She was at UA. Every fucker knew my face, whether I liked it or not.
Without realizing it, I took hold of her wrist. “Y’okay?”
She didn’t look up but politely muttered, “I’m fine.”
Negative.
Still no eye contact.
Still no recognition.
“You sure?” I asked again—absolutely no idea why.
I saw it in her shoulders: she was done with the day. Her long, black lashes fluttered on her cheeks before her caramel eyes fixed on mine. The wind knocked right out of my chest, and I couldn’t seem to move.
“You ever have one of those days where everything turns into a bloody nightmare?” she asked tiredly.
English. Not English like the queen, though. Her accent had a lilt to it that I couldn’t place. Christ, but it was hot.
“Having one myself, actually.”
Her tight eyes softened and she sighed. “Then that makes two of us.” Full lips crooked into a smile.
My heart did something it never had before.
It felt.
It felt something… indescribable. Each subsequent beat seemed louder and heavier than ever before and I started freaking the hell out.
“Thank you for stopping to help me. It was very nice of you,” she said politely, the sentiment snapping me right back to reality.
