Not My Romeo by Ilsa Madden-Mills

Chapter 6

JACK

Hours later, I snap awake and stand straight up from the bed, fists raised, heart hammering like a freight train. Fuck. The nightmare again. Slowly I rub at my left shoulder, where my scar is, easing the ache there. I sigh and sit back on the bed with my head in my hands. Deep inhale, long exhale. I close my eyes, hoping to banish the dream from my thoughts, but it doesn’t work . . .

Harvey tosses me against the wall, his hand tight against my throat. He hovers over me, cigarette breath in my face. I’m not a match for him at thirteen, and I flail around, my lanky arms reaching up to pull his meaty paws off me. His road-map eyes glare down at me, and I see darkness there, emptiness that alcohol or Mama can’t fix. He reeks of dissatisfaction, discontent, a grenade that’s itching to be pulled.

My mouth opens, gasping for air. Black spots dance in front of my face.

“Get off him!” Mama yells from behind, but he doesn’t even turn around. He gives me an oily grin and presses harder. My nails scrabble at the old paneling, grasping.

“He smarted off to me, Eugenia. Need to teach this boy some lessons. Might do him some good. Little pussy. Always getting on my nerves.”

I look over his shoulder at Mama as my lids shut. This is it. And maybe I always knew it would come to this, Harvey getting sick of me being around and under his feet, another mouth to feed. Mama can’t quit him. Even after busted lips and cracked ribs on her body. Belt whippings he did to my back.

Dimly I’m aware of Mama running into the bedroom and dashing back. “Let him go, or I’m going to shoot you, Harvey.”

He lets his arms fall, and I sink to the shag carpet, sucking in air, but all I focus on is Mama—and those two trembling hands that clasp the gun.

Shoot him, shoot him, I scream in my head.

He advances toward her, creeping in, the stillness of it frightening me more than any of the fast jabs he takes at me.

“Mama,” I croak, and in that instant when she looks at me, he pushes her down to the floor, takes the gun from her hands, and fires two bullets at her. He points it back at me—

Stop.

I scrub my face, then grab my phone and check the time. Five o’clock in the morning. Too close to my workout time to go back to bed. Besides, there’ll be no more sleep for me. Once that dream hits, it digs its claws in deep, rocking me, taking me back to the hell I grew up with. Twenty-eight years old, and that shit still sticks to me, like dirty gum you can’t get off your shoe.

A soft snoring sound reaches my ears, and I start and jerk back off the bed, nearly stumbling as I blink down at the girl in my bed and study the lump she makes under the white quilt, her body curled up in a ball. Her hair, a mix of red and gold, is splayed out on the pillow, her soft pink lips parted as she breathes. I trace over the soft curve of her cheek, the elegant arch of her auburn eyebrows. Part of me is tempted to crawl right back in with her, to wake her up the way she deserves, but my head isn’t there. Once that nightmare hits, I crave time alone.

Plus, today is going to be hard enough anyway. I may as well face it.

Being as quiet as possible, I head to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. Dark shadows are under my bleary eyes, and I’ve lost a few pounds since the Super Bowl, when I should be bulking up and prepping for summer camp.

Even though I’m headed to the gym, I get in the shower and let the hot water slide over me, trying to shake the last vestiges of that dream out of my head. My back stings, and I glance in the mirror from the see-through glass of the shower. Long scratches are across the yellow-and-black tiger tattoo that takes up most of my back, and a small laugh comes from me. She quieted all the shit in my head last night, a bandage to the turmoil. I recall the way she stood in front of me, all curves and fire, the sound she made deep in her throat as she came under my tongue that first time, her hands deep in my hair, showing me what she wanted—

My cock is hard again.

I ignore it.

Once she finds out who I really am, she’ll probably be just like everyone else . . .

Whatever.

There’s no reason to make something into more . . .

Once out of the shower, I ease back into the darkened room, and moving as quietly as possible, I toss on my workout gear and shoes. On the way toward the door, I stop by the kitchen and grab her NDA, sticking the papers inside my duffel without looking.

It’s the flash of sparkly pink that makes me stop. Lying near the kitchen island are the little panties she wore last night. Memories of her flood my head. Impulsively, I bend over and snatch them up and tuck them in my joggers. I grab a pad of Post-its from the desk; then I scrawl a note for her and leave it on her pillow. I owe her the truth.

I exit the penthouse, and Quinn stands at the elevator, big and muscular, all of twenty-one. He’s one of Lucy’s former foster kids, and I hired him a few months back to be on call whenever I need him. It makes me antsy that someone else might figure out where I periodically spend time. My apartment is a block away, but that building came with top-notch security—the hotel, not so much. I called him last night and told him I was headed to the penthouse, and he came over. He’s got zilch experience in security, but he’s tough looking, and when Lucy asks for something, I move heaven and earth to make it happen.

“Morning, sir. The stadium?”

I nod. “Yeah, and you don’t have to call me sir, Quinn.” We have the same conversation every time he addresses me.

“I’ll call a car for you now, sir. Or I can drive you?”

I wave him off. “I’m going to drive.”

He looks disappointed, and I figure he’s bored just standing here all night—although he still looks fresh. He probably napped in the big leather chair near the elevator. My head nudges toward the closed door of the penthouse. “Will you make sure the cleaning lady skips today? Call down, and let them know.”

His face splits in a grin. “Nice evening?”

I frown. “We don’t discuss my private life. Whoever comes in and out of that room is my business.” I pause. Yet . . . “Tell her I’m sorry, will you?”

He gives me an odd look, then straightens and gives me a nod. “Of course, sir.”

“Quinn. Call me Jack, please. The same lady raised us. We’re practically family.”

Not really. He came along long after I left Lucy’s house and went to college, but damn, sometimes I wish I had a real brother.

He nods. “Sorry, it’s just I’m thankful for the job, sir—Jack. Not many people want to hire someone who’s been in jail.”

Lucy told me all about his drunken skirmish with another college kid, who happened to be the son of a senator. That kid ended up in the hospital with a broken arm and broken ribs. Quinn got six months, a tough sentence for a kid just starting his life, and from what I’ve seen of him, he’s polite and good at what he does, and he definitely looks the part with that brawn. And I’m a big believer in going with my gut, and my gut says Quinn’s a good kid.

“Hey. Forget that. It’s how you live your life now that matters.”

He exhales. “It was self-defense, sir—Jack. He brought it on himself, and I took it and took it until I snapped. The media blew it out of proportion.”

“No need to explain it to me. I’ve snapped a few times myself.” I recall a skirmish I got sucked into on the field just this last season, after a helmet grab that took me down hard and hurt my shoulder. And even though I didn’t start that fight, you better believe people think I did.

I slap him on the back. “Never look back, Quinn. Let people talk.” That’s my motto.

He gives me another hopeful glance. “You think you’ll need me tonight? I don’t have any plans. I can be here or wherever you need.”

I don’t really need him tonight. But I can tell Quinn wants to be busy. “Devon’s got a birthday party at the Razor. You can hang out if you want the hours.”

He grins. “Yes, sir.”

An hour later, I’ve gotten fifteen miles in on the treadmill when Aiden waltzes into the gym, his face fucking perky for the early hour. Looks like someone else is working on his game. Most of the team is on vacation right now, chilling out in some faraway place, enjoying their families or significant others during the off-season. Not me. Here I am, working my ass off to keep my number one spot.

And Aiden . . . yeah, he’s a real go-getter too.

Twenty-three and a superstar draft from Alabama, he’s been breathing down my neck since he got on the roster, just waiting for me to screw up so he can step right into my shoes.

He doesn’t speak as he walks past me, but those eyes are all over me. A little smile curls his lips as he leans on the treadmill next to me.

I click off the machine and tug out my earbuds. “Like what you see? Need some pointers on how to run?”

A lot of this game is in the head, and nobody’s as good at that as me. Sure, my private life might be piling up around me, but I know when a young buck is aiming for my heart. Football is all I have, and I’ll do anything to protect my game.

“Ease up there, old man. I’m just here to work out.”

Uh-huh. He’s been here every morning like clockwork, staying as late as I do.

“You need some help with your passing game? You hesitate half a second on a blitz. You better fix that before you even dream of taking my spot.”

He frowns.

I grin.

“I do not hesitate.”

“Yep. You do.” I shrug and grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face, knowing he’s playing back that last horrible game we had.

He rolls his shoulders before picking up a barbell, doing reps for his arms. “I just want what’s best for this team—”

“And you think that’s you?”

He sets down his weight and pushes back brown hair, flashing me a cocky grin.

“Yeah, man. Think about it. You’ve been here for seven years, and I don’t see a Super Bowl ring on that finger. You messed up that game good, Hawke. Five interceptions. Five. You choked last month in front of millions, and this town remembers. And now . . .” He laughs as he sets the barbell back on the shelf, grazing his hands over the selection, idly picking up a heavier one. His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Dude. You’re practically handing me the starting position. You hit a little kid in your big-ass Escalade last week. They might have forgiven you the loss of that trophy, but a young fan . . .” He lifts a shoulder nonchalantly.

Anger ratchets up. “I didn’t see you out there trying to score when they put you in that game. You couldn’t move the ball one inch. You. Hesitate.” I continue, “You might be bright and shiny now, but you don’t have the grit, Alabama.”

He bristles.

The double doors of the gym open.

I turn as head coach John Connor walks in, his gaze beady. “Everything all right?” He moves his eyes between us.

I cross my arms. “Aiden and I were just jawing.”

“Yeah,” Aiden adds. “Jack was saying how great I am.”

I bend down to grab my water bottle on the bench; my lips tighten as a fissure of pain races down my left shoulder, tingling all the way to my arm. Gritting my teeth, I force my shoulders to relax. No way do I want Aiden to get a whiff of weakness. Or anyone. I shake it off, rolling my shoulders, relaxing as it fades.

Coach frowns as he takes in my running joggers and sweaty face. “The press conference is in two hours. You know what you’re going to say?”

The press conference.

A tight feeling grows in my chest. Do I know what I’m going to say? No.

I pray I can speak at all.

I give him a tight nod and stalk out of the gym. Lawrence meets me out in the hall, his Armani suit gray and as sharp as his face. He straightens up from the wall he was leaning against. “First things first, you look like shit.”

“Thanks.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Late night.”

“Also, there’s a pic of you online in Milano’s with a woman, drinking. What part of keeping your head down until this blows over did you not understand, Hawke?”

“It was a date. And it was one drink with dinner.”

His mouth gapes. “A date?”

I scrub my face. “Wasn’t planned.”

He nods, eyeing me carefully. “There’s a video of you getting in some guy’s face too—”

“I did not get in his face. God damn it, Lawrence. I have a life. Why does everything I do have to be picked apart?” I push off past him, and he follows, his legs considerably shorter than mine, so he scurries to keep up.

“Because you’re you, and the media hates you.”

“They love the lies.”

“But it makes for a good story.”

I walk into the locker room and yank open my locker, eyeing the clothing I have there, everything from street clothes to a couple of suits.

Lawrence looms over my shoulder, rifling through the rack and pulling out a yellow polo with the Tiger emblem and a pair of designer jeans. “You need to dress casually for the reporters, nothing flashy. I know you like your pressed shirts and slacks, but look relatable. Be nice. Try a smile. Soften that growly voice.”

My shoulders tighten as I take in a deep breath. “I am relatable. I grew up poor as shit. I won the Heisman my junior year in college. Why doesn’t anyone remember that, huh?” I send him a side-eye. “And we both know I can’t stand those reporters in my face. I can’t do it, Lawrence. I don’t know why I’m even going to this thing.”

“Because Coach is making you.”

I turn to face him and see the sympathy on his face. He knows the panic I feel whenever a crowd is hounding me. I wasn’t this way in high school, or maybe I was and just didn’t recognize the symptoms because I never really had to put myself out in public. In college, I recognized it right away as soon as I came off the field after a big game and a reporter stuck a microphone in my face. I brushed past them and kept on going. Sometimes I’d be okay if my helmet was on. A few times, my teammate Devon would stand next to me, and I’d let him do the majority of the talking. Lord knows he can’t shut up anyway. Later, after I was drafted and came to Nashville, everyone expected me to be friendly with the media, give interviews to the local guys whenever they wanted, be the MC at galas. Never in a million years.

And my reputation as an arrogant, unemotional asshole was born.

“The press conference isn’t a bad idea. You’ve barely spoken at one in years, and trust me; they’ll be salivating in that room.”

“Not helping, Lawrence.”

“Too much has been said about you in the past—including Sophia’s lies—and you’ve never defended yourself. You lost the Super Bowl. You ran over a kid—accidentally. It’s time to buckle down and think about putting yourself out there. Look, you hired me to fix your image issues. You have this anxiety thing when it comes to reporters in your face, but just try this time. Stare at the ground if you have to. Just get the words out about what happened. It wasn’t your fault, Jack, but when you won’t even tell people, they form their own opinions.”

I stand there, mulling. I don’t even know the root of the fear. It’s just there.

He exhales. “People like a villain, Hawke, and you make a great one. There are rumors of trading you.”

“Rumors from whom?”

“I don’t have specifics.”

I close my eyes.

There are always rumors, especially after a big loss, but if they do trade me . . . it’s a death sentence. It says, Jack has problems, and Nashville doesn’t want him. Plus, this damn shoulder. I rub it for a moment, then grab the hangers he’s holding and head to the showers.

He keeps pace behind me, his headset from his phone in his ears as he talks to someone. Probably my agent.

I flip on the water and give him a look. “Are you gonna talk to me the whole time I shower?”

His lips press together. “If I have to. We need to run through a few responses to questions I’m anticipating. We’re going to spin it and blame the kid. He never should have been outside the stadium in a restricted zone anyway. It wasn’t your fault you didn’t see him—”

“Lawrence, he’s a kid. I can’t blame him. Get out of here, okay? Let me think.” I pause. “Also, find out what you can about a girl named Elena.”

He crosses his arms. “Not your secretary.”

“Personal assistants. That’s what they call them these days. But you are my PR guy.”

He rolls his eyes. “A girl, huh?”

I grab my gym bag and pull out the NDA, scanning it. “Yeah. The one from last night.” My stomach drops. “Dammit!”

“What?” He looks over my shoulder.

I groan, dread filling my stomach as I scan the papers. “She didn’t sign the NDA with her real name.”

He shrugs. “Juliet Capulet? Has a nice ring to it. Maybe Elena is her middle name?”

“Hardly.” My lips tighten.

“Is there an address?”

I grimace. “Home address: Verona, Italy.”

“Is she Italian?”

I huff out a laugh. “Dude. Romeo and Juliet. How the hell did you ever pass freshman lit?”

He shrugs. “Your dick is going to get you in trouble.”

I slam the papers back in my bag. “Just find out who she is, okay? I left her this morning with my digits, but she may not be in the best mood when she wakes up. She thinks I’m the local weatherman, Greg something—”

Lawrence sputters. “You lied to her? That alone is enough to make the NDA invalid. What if she runs straight to the media?”

I wince. I wasn’t thinking straight last night . . .

“Just find her, and we’ll do a new one, true?”

He throws his hands in the air. “Unbelievable. You actually want me to hunt down some random you screwed—”

My finger spears him. “Not a random. Don’t talk like that, Lawrence. She is a person.”

And I liked her.

His eyebrows hit the roof. “I should just quit this job now.”

“You threaten to quit once a month, and no one believes you. ’Cause you like me too much, and I pay you well.” I slap him on the arm. “I need you. I have two good friends in this town, you and Devon. Do you have any clue how lucky we are to be together?”

Lawrence, Devon, and I all attended Ohio State and played football and won a national championship our senior year. I was drafted to Nashville—first round, first pick—and Lawrence’s family lives here. Football wasn’t a lifetime career for him, so I hired him as PR, not even realizing how bad I’d come to need him in the next few years. And Devon—he was traded to Nashville from Jacksonville a couple of years ago, our best wide receiver and my go-to guy on the field.

Lawrence scowls. “I don’t know how to find a girl.”

“Liar. You’re like a pro, man, all stealth and spy-like. You’re a laser with sharp focus. You’re a ninja who scales tall buildings. Hell, you’re—”

“Fine. I’m awesome. I have skills.” He studies his carefully manicured nails. “But this is different. Maybe this girl doesn’t want to be found. Does she live nearby?”

I stop, recalling our conversation. “Daisy. Small town. I’ve never heard of it, but then I don’t leave the city much.”

He paces around the locker room. “Daisy, Daisy, why is that so familiar . . .”

“Lawrence, I need her signature. I’m paranoid as hell.”

He nods, whipping out his phone and taking notes. “Elena something who lives in a town named after a flower—a weed, really, if you think about it.” He gives me an assessing look. “I hope she’s worth all this trouble.”

My body heats, my cock twitching at that memory of her big eyes, the way her back arched when she was on top of me last night, her long hair brushing the tops of my legs—

“Hawke, are you listening? I barely have anything to go on here.”

I put my back to him to hide the tent in my workout pants. “She’s a librarian. Can’t be too many of those in Daisy.”

A long sigh comes from him. “All right, you get showered while I make some calls.”