by Tillie Cole
Giving in and taking comfort in his support, I gripped to his shirt, confiding, “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t be without her. What am I going to do? What if she never comes back for me?”
My uncle’s strained and hoarse voice replied, “Shh, son. It’ll be okay. None of this was your fault. Losing your baby should not be on your conscience.”
Anger fused in my veins and I snapped, “It was, though. It was all my fault!” My face was wet with too many tears and, giving up the last of my resistance, I sagged and said brokenly, “Everybody leaves me. Nobody ever has faith in me. I’m never enough… I’m never fuckin’ enough… What is it that makes everybody leave me…? What is it that makes them not love me enough to save me too?”
My uncle tightened me in his hold and then moved before me to grip my cheeks. “You are enough! It’s not your fault, you hear me?”
My head shook in disagreement and my eyes closed, but the fucking stream of tears just wouldn’t stop… anger and grief now the only emotions I had left.
31
I woke with a start, sitting up in bed, sweating, panting, and my cock so damn hard in my boxers. My hand felt beside me, searching for Mol, but the spot to my left was empty. Oh, yeah. She’d gone, and it was my third night at my uncle’s place… alone.
I looked around the unfamiliar room, my eyes catching sight of the clock beside me—three in the morning. Shit. My thoughts were immediately on my girl, knowing she’d already be awake and going about her day in Oxford.
Was she missing me? Wanting to come back home?
Falling back onto the mattress, I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut, but the replay of images from my dream was a slow torture, a temptation—I’d broken from my sleep way too soon. I wanted the memory of making love to my girl to seem real, wanted to feel once again what it was like to be inside her, chest to chest, rocking together, hands intertwined… lost in her… saved by her.
Closing my eyes, my memories slammed into me like a fucking truck, but I embraced them. I wanted to remember…
“Romeo, what are you doing? The party… you’ve just won the SEC Championship, you should be with the team…” Molly panted into my hair as I held her against the wall of my room. As soon as the door slammed to a close, I began pushing down her panties.
Lifting the skirt of her dress, I wrapped her legs round my waist. “They’ve had me all day in that fuckin’ parade, showboating me through town. The press has heard everything I gotta say. Now it’s all about you, and me, and sinking my cock into this sweet little pussy,” I said slowly, taking my hand and flicking my finger along her clit.
“Rome!”
Slipping back to reality and groaning with need, I reached down, stroking along my cock, trying to remember everything: how it felt being that close to my girl, how her face looked in the moonlight as I thrust into her against that wall. I was fucking desperate, searching for some connection to a time when things weren’t so messed up…
I freed my dick from my jeans and guided it toward Mol’s hot center. “You ready, baby? You ready for me?”
“Yes!”
I ran the tip around her warm hole, teasing, feeling her push down in frustration. “Mmm… I might just wait until you need it a bit more.”
“Rome! No! Please…”
Smiling as she tilted her hips just right, I breeched her entrance, and with one fast slam, pushed right in to the hilt.
Christ, it felt so good.
Molly gripped the nape of my neck as I pressed kisses along the sides of her neck and the swells of her tits. “Shit, baby, you’re so tight.”
“Harder, Rome, harder…” she begged.
I gave her what she needed and pounded her against the wall, the rhythmic thuds of her back against the drywall sounding with each thrust.
“Ugh… Rome… I’m… I’m—” Her sentence cut off as she screamed against my neck, her tight channel milking my cock.
“Mol… Mol!” I croaked as I came, gripping my girl’s legs and holding her off the floor with my torso.
Pulling back, Molly beamed her smile at me. “We should get back to the party now. People will be wondering where we are.”
Grinning back, I said, “Fine,” and leaned in to whisper in her ear, “but keep the panties off. There are more walls I’m wanting to try out…”
Staring at the ceiling, breathing fast with cum on my stomach, I felt a friggin’ tear slip out of the corner of my eye. I couldn’t get that feeling of contentment back, jerking off like a desperate fool in the middle of the night just to get a feeling even close to what we shared.
What Mol and I shared was never just a fuck; it was never just making love. It was fucking life-changing, life-affirming, and fear seized my chest at the thought of never having that back.
Yeah, the way we fucked was rough, intense, but it didn’t make the connection any less real. In fact, it made it the total opposite. In those moments we were exactly who we were meant to be, and we’d been unashamed to expose that side of ourselves to one another. We fit like a friggin’ puzzle.
Feeling like I’d taken a blow to the chest instead of reliving a happy memory, I sat up straight, swinging my legs off the bed, my head falling to my hands. My promise to my girl tormented my mind. I’ll make sure we get our happily ever after… Like hell I did. She got a fucking nightmare, and she—no, we were still stuck in that damn hell.
Walking to the bathroom, I turned on the shower, letting the hot water pound on my head. Grabbing the soap, I ran it over my skin, staring at the tattoo on my hip. “One Day.” I thought back to the day I got it—the day I told my daddy I’d gotten the UA football scholarship and was leaving home at the end of the school year. I was going to play for the Tide. It was the happiest day of my life, or had been until I met Mol. That tattoo was a symbol of my freedom, of my intention to get the hell away.
Switching off the shower, I toweled off and sat on the bed. The clock now read four a.m. Only a bastard hour had passed.
Reaching for my cell, I found the only number worth knowing.
Lying back on the bed, I listened to the voicemail greeting that kept me company most nights, then spoke:
“Hey, baby, just thought I’d call. It’s four in the morning and I can’t sleep… again. I dreamt about you tonight… God, I miss you. Being away from you is killing me. Come back, Shakespeare. I need you. I feel like I’m going insane. It’s Christmas tomorrow, for fuck’s sake. You should be here like we’d planned, just being with me, not in friggin’ England on your own. If you can’t talk yet, fine, but just let me know you’re okay, text, email, just something—”
The long tone cut me off, telling me I’d run out of time, and, throwing my cell to the floor, I lay back, closed my eyes, and let more memories rip me into shreds.
32
I was right to come back to Tuscaloosa. It may’ve only been the day after Christmas but I’d pretty much spoiled most of the holidays for my aunt, uncle, and Ally. Getting the news on Christmas day that my momma was being released without charge for her assault on Molly at the hospital—a restraining order and a court issued rehab program, her only punishment—was a complete head fuck. The news got me so damn mad that I couldn’t sit at the dinner table, celebrating the joys of Christmas, when my momma had gotten away with her crimes, and just to top it all off, I still hadn’t heard from my girl.
Uncle Gabe had tried to help, asking the police about the fact that my momma was the cause of Molly’s miscarriage and why wasn’t she being held accountable? But the fact was my mother never knew Molly was even pregnant when they’d had their argument, and the placental abruption occurred when Molly fell against the edge of the table after my mother’s slap. Molly hadn’t pressed charges for that assault, too busy grieving to even care.
So here I was, pounding down the highway back to Tuscaloosa, reeling from my mother’s lack of comeuppance and dreading the Tide’s training for the BCS Championship that started tomorrow and the fact that I’d have to fac
e all my teammates.
After an hour, I pulled into a familiar parking lot, and Luke was already waiting just inside the main door—inked from his completely shaven head to his toes.
Standing as I entered his shop, he shook my hand, stating, “Rome, I’m so sorry, man… I saw it on the news. I don’t know what the hell to say.”
Slapping him on the back and swallowing hard, I replied, “I know, man. Thanks.”
I pointed at the black-padded table, all set up, and asked, “We good to go?”
Gesturing to the chair with one hand and giving me a thumbs-up with the other, Luke busied himself preparing the gun and ink as I peeled my shirt over my head and sat down, my jaw clenching.
Sitting down beside me, Luke asked, “So what are we going for?”
“Angel wings, white ones, big enough to cover most of my chest and torso.”
Luke paused, then nodded sympathetically and went to begin marking them on my skin, when I stopped his hand, gripping his wrist, looking him dead in the eye. “You make this the best fuckin’ work you’ve ever done. My previous ink is nothing compared to this. Any work you’ve ever done is nothing compared to this, you get me?”
“I get you. I promise, Rome, they’ll be just right.”
Sensing his sincerity, I freed his hand and an hour later, the outline was drawn.
“Go ahead, man, check it out.”
When I stood before the mirror, I couldn’t speak. The wings were just right, the perfect tribute to our child—two large wings starting on my chest and each tip ending low on my abs. Giving Luke an approving nod, I sat back on the chair, the buzzing of the gun blaring in the silent room.
“It’ll take about eight hours all in all. We’ll do half today, then finish up tomorrow if you’d like,” Luke said, hovering the gun just above my stomach, waiting for my answer.
“No,” I said harshly. “We start and finish today.”
Luke frowned. “Hell, man, that’s too much. Your body could go into shock. We’re gonna be covering some damn painful areas.”
“I don’t give a fuck. We do this today,” I growled, my voice coming out too strong. Luke was a friend and didn’t deserve my shitty attitude, but I needed this, needed to get it done.
“Bullet, man, the pain—”
“Is what I want! Now are you going to do it or do I need to find someone else who will? I’m paying you a hell of a lot of money to get this done as soon as possible, but believe me, that can change.”
Sighing, Luke answered, “Have it your way, man. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Let me know if you want to stop at any point.”
“I won’t.”
The minute the gun touched my skin, I closed my eyes. The pain would be worth it. Molly endured so much fucking pain; it was only right I did too, and our angel… our angel deserved this. Deserved to be remembered.
“Rome, man! Have you blacked out on me or what?”
Snapping back to reality, I flinched at the tightness of my raw torso and, looking to Luke, asked, “What?”
“We’re done. You okay?”
Rubbing a hand down my face, I said, “Yeah, fuck, I zoned out.”
“I know! You want to have a look before I cover it?”
Taking a deep breath, I nodded and, slowly getting off the table, walked to the floor-length mirror, my legs weak as hell from all my body had been put through.
This time, when I saw my new ink, there were no sharp inhales of breath, no painful regurgitated memories or tears. The wings commemorating our lost angel were meant to be on my chest; our child was meant to be remembered. I’d gone through the pain; I’d begun atoning for my failing as a daddy.
“They good, man?” Luke asked from behind me.
Turning and shaking his hand, I replied, “They’re fucking perfect… just… beyond.”
* * *
Later that night, I stood at the doorway of the place I never wanted to see again in my life. Too many memories—old and new—assaulted me as I opened the front door, and the first thing I noticed was how bare and cold the place felt without the usual antiques and artwork proudly and ostentatiously on display.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. My daddy’s lawyer was at the entrance to the office, gesturing for me to step inside.
When I walked into the study, my father sat behind his desk, unkempt and looking older than his years. He looked up when I entered and let out a small, bitter laugh—even hitting rock bottom didn’t change the bastard.
“Let you out on bail, then?” I drawled, taking a seat.
Shrugging, he answered, “Paid for it with the last of the Prince Oil share of the money, but don’t worry, son, I’ll be going to prison soon enough… and all because you were too fucking stubborn to do what you were told.”
Leaning forward, I hissed, “You deserve to fester in a cold cell. You killed my baby, you sadistic fuck. You’re lucky I don’t kill your evil ass. You laundered the money. It’s all on you!”
“Wow, Romeo, I can just feel the father-son love,” he answered dryly. I almost had to sit on my hands to stop from knocking the bastard out. I wasn’t going to hit him though. I didn’t want anything to get in the way of his conviction.
“What’s happened to Prince Oil? The Blairs?”
“The company is in administration. The Blairs are probably gonna declare bankruptcy.” He turned his cold, dead eyes to me. “Bet that makes you happy, eh?”
“And Momma? Where’s she? Off ruining more lives?” I asked, ignoring his shitty tone.
He waved his hand dismissively. “She’s left town. She won’t be back.”
“She should be rotting in jail too!”
The suit entered the study at that moment, putting an end to our conversation, and sat down before me, pushing a contract into my hands. “From this day on, you are to cut all ties from your parents. That includes any inheritance of their fortune—or what’s left of it when it’s liquidized by the government—their properties, and their possessions.”
“Done,” I answered quickly, causing the no-nonsense lawyer to glare at me over his glasses.
“You have no problems with this?”
Smiling, I said, “Let me put this to you straight. I hate them. They’re fuckin’ horrible examples of people. I have my own money—money they can’t touch—and I’m getting drafted by the NFL. I want nothing of theirs. Anything they’ve touched would only be cursed anyway.”
“So you’ll sign?” The lawyer confirmed again and I nodded. My daddy turned away from me in his chair, staring out the window.
The fucker was broken. And it was the best thing I’d ever seen.
Refocusing on the lawyer, I replied, “Gladly.”
He passed me a fancy-ass pen, and three signatures later, I was officially and legally free.
Standing, I walked over to my daddy one last time and declared, “We’re done. Never speak to me again. Never contact me again. If you come anywhere near me, Molly, or my friends, I’ll kill you and that’s a damn promise.” Crouching right down before his aging face, seeing his lip curl in anger, I smiled. “And have fun rotting away in a cell, being someone’s bitch for the rest of your miserable life. And while I’m sure y’all will think of me every minute for the rest of your days, I’ll make sure to never think of either of you Ever. Ever. Again.”
As I stepped out of the front door, I took one look at the old empty house that had held me an emotional prisoner for so long, and realized, my folks no longer had any power over me, not like before, and never would ever again.
* * *
Walking back into that locker room was hell.
As soon as I entered the doors, my rowdy teammates froze and stared at me as I made my way to my locker, dropping my bag and squeezing my eyes closed at the strength it was taking to face them all again.
I heard Coach walk into the room and clear his throat. “Rome?” he said, and turning, I looked to him, knowing my face was blank. “Damn glad to have you back, son.” He walked over
and shook my hand, pulling me into his embrace, and when he stepped back, each of my teammates did the same. My eyes blurred with the emotion of the moment.
Chris Porter was one of the last to approach me, and when he did, he shook his head. “Bullet, man, I’m so sorry.” I could only squeeze his shoulder in response. The shit between him and me no longer mattered. Perspective—a wonderful thing.
“I finished with Shelly right away. Anyone who could be involved in something so sick isn’t worth the damn air she breathes.”
“How’s Molly?” Jacob Thomsson, our linebacker, asked.
“She left me. I have no idea how she is.”
The tension in the room intensified as I turned my back to the team and began to change into my training shorts, unable to bear the pity in their faces. They needed to know Molly wouldn’t be around for the pregame kiss to which so many of my teammates and fans attributed my near perfect performance this season. I knew the majority of the guys would shit themselves at that information—going into the championship with a heartbroken QB wouldn’t exactly fill them with confidence.
A tattooed arm hooked around my neck, and Austin whispered, “We’ll get you through this, Rome. I swear to God we will.”
I friggin’ hoped so.
“She’ll come back.”
Smiling grimly, I said, “Ally, Jimmy-Don, Lexi, and Cass all tell me the same. But you guys don’t know the half of it. You didn’t see her face the night she left. She’s gone, man. Gone for good.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. What you fail to realize is that the rest of us saw how she looked at you, despite all the grief. She may be going through shit right now, but she loves you, Rome. She’ll be back.”
Cracking a smile and feeling a tiny bit of happiness for the first time in what felt like an age, I joked, “You going soft on me, Carillo?”
