Roman (Raleigh Raptors Book 2)

by Samantha Whiskey

  As awkward as this conversation was, damn did she look edible tonight. She had on her new, form-fitting jeans that hugged her ass like the work of art it was, and a blue, v-neck blouse that not only dipped to the curve of her breasts but made those eyes of hers stand out even brighter.

  I reached for my water and drank, wishing it was something stronger so I could quiet the raging need in my body. Living with the woman I loved for the past month had me strung out in a way I’d never felt before. Not only was I trying like hell to hide my feelings for her—which was getting harder by the day, but I wasn’t sure how many more nights I could spend with that delectable ass curled up against my dick before she felt my feelings for her.

  “You know I’m just here temporarily, right?” Teagan offered her mother a sturdy smile, but her fingers trembled slightly as she set down her fork, leaving her cheesecake half-eaten.

  She was losing weight. I knew it was pretty much unavoidable given the stress she was under, but I still wanted to slide her dessert toward her or hell, feed it to her bite by bite.

  Holy shit, I needed to get laid, but the last thing I wanted to do was leave Teagan for the night—or fuck some random in the backroom of a bar. Rick had nailed it on the head this morning—I wanted what I couldn’t have. Fuck, did I want her.

  “Well, of course,” her mother answered, and I snapped back into the conversation, forcing my attention off Teagan. “But it doesn’t mean a girl can’t dream, right, Emma?”

  “Absolutely.” Mom laughed. “I mean, we’ve only been planning this marriage for what? Twenty years?” Her eyes danced with humor, and I tilted my head in a wordless plea for her to cut me just a little slack.

  It was one thing to hide my feelings from Teagan.

  My mother? I never stood a chance. Her sharp, eagle eyes had seen it from the moment I turned thirteen.

  “Twenty-two,” Mrs. Hall countered with raised eyebrows.

  “Mom,” Teagan begged.

  “Oh, honey, don’t deny an old woman her dreams. You two have been inseparable since you were four, so we always just assumed we’d be raising our grandkids together.”

  My stomach twisted, but it wasn’t like Mrs. Hall knew that wasn’t ever going to happen.

  “Right,” Mom interjected smoothly, barely looking my way. God, she was good. “I mean, you two have already seen each other naked,” she teased.

  “Mom!” I sputtered.

  “We were five!” Teagan exclaimed, hiding her reddening face behind her napkin.

  “Oh, Emma, don’t you remember how they refused to bathe separately for a year?” Mrs. Hall laughed.

  Fucking kill me now.

  “And we had to trade off nights?” Mom laughed.

  Teagan and I found anywhere to look besides across the table.

  “Things have changed a bit since then,” I drawled, willing myself to relax. Funny, for thousand-dollar chairs, they were sure uncomfortable to fidget in.

  “More than a bit.” Teagan’s blush crept down her neck.

  “Still, we certainly wouldn’t complain if one of you decided to creep down the hall in the middle of the night while you’re living together,” Mom’s smile shifted to a sly smirk.

  My gaze locked with Teagan’s since she’d been doing that very thing for the last month.

  “Not at all,” Mrs. Hall agreed. “In fact, you two would make the cutest couple if you decided to help us out with our little in-law plan. Maybe we should put on a little Marvin Gaye and get out of your hair?”

  “Oh my God! Mom! I don’t think of him like that!” she blurted.

  My stomach fell through the dining room floor, but I managed a laugh. “Give it a rest before T has a coronary.” I shifted forward in my seat. “Besides, like I’d ever be good enough for her.” My grin was forced. “She prefers her guys a little more in shape.”

  Both our mothers laughed at my obvious joke.

  Teagan’s face fell slightly, but she played along.

  “Talk about our moms making it weird,” she said an hour later as I put the last of the dishes into the dishwasher.

  “Right?” My answer was quick, but not enough to cut through the awkward tension that had settled between us since our moms left. T handed me the dishwasher soap, and I started the machine, but that only took a couple of minutes. I folded my arms across my chest and leaned back against the counter as the pink returned to her cheeks.

  “Look, about what they said—” she shifted her weight on her bare feet. God, I loved how comfortable she was here. She simply…fit.

  I don’t think of him like that! Her words rung in my ears like the funeral dirge they were, but I couldn’t rip my eyes away from hers. I’d read Dante and knew all about the different levels of Hell, but he’d somehow neglected to write about the one where you spent a lifetime in love with your best friend while she…didn’t think of you like that.

  “Don’t mention it.” I shrugged it off.

  “You know you’re good enough for me, right?” She asked softly, the skin between her eyes wrinkling in concern. “I mean, not that we’d ever…you know.”

  Yep, this was hell.

  “What?” I raked my hand over my hair, resisting the urge to pull it out by the root. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.” I wasn’t, though. Not for what she wanted.

  Her mouth tightened like she didn’t quite believe me. “Okay, because it seemed like—”

  “I was just doing my best to change the subject.” It wasn’t a total lie. “They were making it awkward as hell, right?”

  A dozen emotions flickered across her features, none lasting more than a heartbeat or two. “Yeah. Right.” She swallowed and made a goofy face. “Besides, we’re just friends, so it’s not like it matters.”

  “Absolutely. Just friends. Always.” I grinned and shrugged.

  Damn it, our mothers had accomplished the one thing Teagan and I had fought against for the last twenty-two years—they’d made it…weird.

  “Well, I’m going to…take a bath!” She nodded quickly.

  Naked Teagan. Hot water. Bubbles. Soft curves under my hands—I blinked rapidly and turned toward the refrigerator. “Yeah, of course. Have fun!”

  Have fun? It’s a damned bath, not an amusement park!

  Though if I had to bet, I would have said sex with her was probably a lot like a roller coaster—a jaw-dropping ride that left you scrambling to get back on again.

  Thank God she was gone when I turned around because I was certain she’d see the starvation I felt for her in my eyes.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” I lectured Walt as he tilted his head and whined softly. “It’s not like you’re any better with the ladies.”

  He huffed at me, and I rolled my eyes as I took him outside.

  Teagan was an hour later than normal as she slid into bed next to me, smelling like that sweet shampoo she loved. Not that I’d been watching the clock or anything.

  Instead of rolling against me and tucking in tight, she settled into the other side of the bed and sighed. Yet another shift.

  I stared at the smooth, creamy skin of her back that was bared between her tank-top straps until my breaths evened out. I had just drifted into sleep when I heard her whisper, “You have it all wrong, Roman. I’m the one who would never be good enough. Not for you, anyway.”

  Thanks, Mom. Even my dreams had gotten weird.

  Pity. I liked the dreams where Teagan was naked and under me way better.

  6

  Teagan

  “Give me a break, Castle!” I yelled at the screen, scooting to the edge of Roman’s couch. “You’re killing us!” I raked my hands through my hair, shaking my head.

  This was the fourth preseason Raptors game I’d watched from the comfort of Roman’s living room as opposed to the family box where I’d had the privilege of watching for the past few years. And Castle—our backup quarterback—was killing us with turnovers.

  Walt dutifully kept me warm, perching his head in my lap and not at al
l flinching at my elevated critiques shot toward the TV.

  I sent up a silent prayer that Nixon remained healthy and whole for the upcoming season, both because I adored him but also because we needed his arm, his ability to read the field and the defense.

  Settling back into Roman’s couch, I rubbed Walt’s ears and sighed. I missed the live-action, missed the adrenaline that came with cheering for a team you loved with your entire being. Missed watching Roman run it in for TDs and the little celebration he’d have with Nixon and Hendrix when he did.

  I tilted my head, searching my heart, and my memory.

  Huh.

  No hint of nostalgia hit me for watching Rick.

  Sure, I’d been there to support him too, especially in the beginning, but as our relationship had progressively grown worse…I’d been there for Roman.

  And Nix. And Hendrix. Roman’s best friends—besides me.

  The camera panned to the sidelines where my boys sat watching the game, and my heart freaking soared at the sight of Roman laughing at something Nixon had said. That smile I knew by heart, the genuineness in it, that special crinkle that scrunched his eyes when he had a real good laugh.

  Heat sizzled beneath my skin—the uniform had always had that effect on me, though. I mean, the men were sculpted to the nth degree, and Roman? God, he was just…he’d always been…

  I blew out a breath, thankful when the camera panned back to the actual game that we were barely winning, thanks to Castle. The man was trying his hardest, but he had a real chip on his shoulder. He needed to take more cues from Nixon, listen to his advice, and watch him and take notes if he ever wanted to be on the same level as him someday.

  Once a commercial break hit, I gently scooted out from under Walt’s massive head and pushed off the comfy couch to pad barefoot through Roman’s house. I double-checked the kitchen was as clean as I’d left it this morning, and then switched a load of laundry. I’d fold it when the game started back up.

  Not because I had to.

  Not because I feared what would happen if I didn’t keep the place tidy.

  But because I wanted to. Because I wanted to be helpful and useful and respectful to my best friend’s house—the one he’d let me crash in for two months now.

  Two months.

  Had it truly been that long? It felt like yesterday that I’d come storming up Roman’s driveway, tears streaking down my cheeks, and fear crippling my heart.

  I shook off the memory, hating the ice that chilled my skin whenever I thought about it. Or whenever the flashbacks would haunt me, usually in those quiet moments before falling asleep and send me running down the hall to climb into Roman’s bed.

  They’d created hellish nightmares, too, and on more than one occasion, I’d woken Roman up screaming.

  I kept telling him I’d sleep in the guestroom, but I’d failed to make it through the night. Plus, he’d told me the nightmares didn’t bother him, and that he liked knowing I was safe. Here.

  My choice.

  Roman would never force me to stay in his bed or in the guestroom. He’d always let me choose. Choose to do whatever was best for me.

  That’s probably why I’d stayed so long already.

  Guilt sparked a bitter tang in my chest.

  I’d been taking advantage of his generosity for so long now…I needed to get back to work. My inbox had a half-dozen commission requests already. I needed to get back to painting.

  A cold chill swept down my spine, tightening my lungs. My supplies were at Rick’s. The absolute last place I wanted to go.

  The box.

  The old cigar box I’d found at a garage sale when I was ten—the one I’d hidden beneath about a dozen perfectly aligned shoe boxes in Rick’s guest room closet. Had Rick found it yet? What would he do when he did?

  I swallowed a lump in my throat, my heart aching for the contents in that box.

  Not the gold and diamonds and precious gems Rick had bought me throughout our relationship, but that box.

  I hefted a basket full of clothes and walked back to the living room. “Thanks for keeping my spot warm,” I cooed to Walt, who shifted next to me as I settled back down.

  We’d just kicked a field goal, putting us up by three. I folded the clothes with a military-like perfection, not daring to question why I needed to be so damn perfect.

  An hour later, I clicked off the TV, happy that we’d won the last preseason game. I couldn’t wait for the next one where my boys would play. I hurried to put up the clothes, rumpling a few of my shirts in the drawer I’d claimed, just because I could. I needed to remind myself that if things weren’t perfect, I wouldn’t be punished.

  Not here.

  Never here.

  The smell of Roman clung to everything in this room—his bedroom—and I couldn’t stop the onslaught of memories hitting me. Memories from our past, both good and bad. Like the time in sixth grade when Roman had found me behind the school, crying my eyes out because the boy I’d had a crush on had played a prank on me. Asked me to the dance only to throw it in my face that he’d never go with a short, chunky girl like me. His perfect, model-worthy girlfriend had showed up to get in on the teasing.

  Roman had broken the boy’s nose.

  Or the time I’d taken Roman to the lake not far from our joined houses after his first real breakup in college. We were sophomores, and he’d been with his girlfriend for a year. He’d finally opened up with her and told her the truth about how he’d been born with the inability to have children. She’d immediately broken up with him under the guise that she absolutely wanted children someday and what was the point of staying with someone who couldn’t give her that?

  It effectively crushed his heart. I’d stolen a cheap bottle of whiskey from my parent’s liquor cabinet and driven him to the lake—a constant throughout our childhood. A secluded place that we felt belonged to solely us. Maybe it was because it was free—a vacation we could take from our normal day-to-day without spending anything more than the gas it took to get there and the snacks we’d bring along the way.

  We’d sat on the bank, the night sky clear above us, each taking pulls from the bottle until the sting in his heart had waned. I remembered the way his body felt leaning against mine, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, as we sat there talking about everything and nothing. As I did everything in my power to make him forget the monster who’d broken his heart. As I did everything in my power not to admit how I’d started feeling about him, about my best friend.

  I couldn’t exactly pinpoint the moment I realized I loved Roman more than a friend back then, but it was close to around that time at the lake. That slightly buzzed, comfortably content moment near the calm water, between laughs and silence, between innocent touches and intoxicating scents.

  God, even the memory of that night made me want him. I could feel it now as I stood in his bedroom reminiscing, that ache in my heart, in my soul, for a taste of him.

  I forced out a laugh, rolling my eyes at myself.

  That felt so long ago. And while I’d tried to work up the courage to tell him…he’d gotten drafted and was NFL bound before I could blink. Then, not only was I not willing to risk our friendship, I definitely wasn’t ready to compete with the life that naturally came with the NFL. Models and celebrities and the most beautiful and perfect people I’d ever seen. And after a year, I’d convinced myself my feelings had been imagined. A slip in conscience on a night where we connected on a deeper level out of my sorrow for his affliction.

  I found myself content in the role I played—Roman’s best friend.

  As I always had been.

  And then, I met Rick at a Raptors event Roman had taken me to.

  And he was charming and sweet and unbelievably gorgeous. He found me interesting and listened to my stories and my dreams, and he wooed me in a way I’d never been pursued before. Flowers and lengthy notes about his love of me. And the sex had been wonderful the first few times.

  Tears bit the backs of m
y eyes as I sank onto the edge of the bed, the laundry all put up, and the empty basket forgotten at my feet.

  Rick’s changes weren’t a tidal wave—they were a slow trickle from a broken faucet. Little switches I’d easily brushed off due to stress or pressure or alcohol. A snap here, a jab at my weight there. A broken cabinet door after he’d found a cup in the wrong place. A fist-sized hole in the wall when I hadn’t answered his call because I’d been on the other line with my mother.

  Selfishness in bed—flip me over and pound till release. No foreplay, no care for my pleasure. Just his.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. I’d been so blind, so deep in it by then that I couldn’t see straight. The love, in the beginning, is what kept me clinging to him—or the idea of him—in the end. Because every bad treatment was followed up with a good one. Something sweet that reminded me of who he’d been at the start of our relationship, and every single time he did that I thought we were taking steps to return to who he’d been before.

  Then the deeper I got, the threats against my family and friends started. Subtle at first, so passive aggressive I didn’t even register them. And then they became clearer, more real, and I felt so far gone that I hadn’t seen a way out.

  And now, after getting the space and time to clear my head, I knew he’d only followed up with those sweet moments to keep me in my place. And he only used those threats when he saw my emotions slipping. Because he felt he owned me and he wouldn’t stand for me leaving him. Women didn’t leave Rick Baker, and I was lucky enough to be chosen as his. A prize, really. Because he could have anyone he wanted.

  I swiped at the tears of anger rolling down my cheeks. Anger at myself for ever letting myself get so deep, so lost that I couldn’t tell right from wrong, normal from toxic.

  For three years, Rick had slowly drowned me in an inch of water.

  Until I’d had that glass-shattering moment—when his tight grip had turned nearly lethal when he’d thrown me against that wall. Thrown me like I was an opposition on the field, threatening his win. The moment where I knew one more second with him would be my end.