I clenched my eyes shut, trying to stop the memories hitting me like a tidal wave. Each one illuminating my cowardice more than the next. They’d all been buried beneath that haze of manipulation—something I hadn’t even realized he’d been doing, he was that good at it. And the breaking point? The moment those memories and events had become crystal clear for what they truly were?
Him going through my private belongings like he had the right to them.
Him grabbing me so hard I had bruises.
Him tossing me against that wall so hard my head spun.
Everything had become utterly, horrifically clear in those few moments—like someone had flipped on a light switch in an incredibly dark room. Illuminating all the gory bits the shadows had hid.
Wash your hair.
Condition your hair.
Then dry your fucking hair.
The simple steps were the only thing I’d allow myself to focus on at the moment, the only thing that could possibly keep me from crumbling. So, I reached for my shampoo…
Not my shampoo.
Roman’s.
I squeezed the woodsy scented stuff into my palm and lathered up my strands, working it harder than necessary.
I didn’t even have my own shampoo.
And a half-hour later, as I toweled off, I realized I didn’t have a hairdryer either.
Or facewash.
Anything.
I wiped the steam from the mirror, looking at myself for the first time. The purple beneath my blue eyes, the bruises on my arms.
I had nothing.
No toiletries, no clothes. I didn’t even own the car I’d driven over here.
My stomach hit the floor as reality dawned on me.
I slipped back into Roman’s T-shirt and shorts, and stormed to the kitchen where I’d left my purse. I fished out my phone, quickly drawing up my banking app.
The world froze as I stared at the number on my account.
Zero.
A wave of nausea rushed over me, and I sank atop the barstool, tears rushing down my cheeks.
Rick had insisted we keep a joint account. I’d thought it was so considerate, too, seeing as he made infinitely more money than I did. But every piece I’d sold brought me that much closer to contributing in a real way. I’d earned a decent income the past year.
And it was gone.
“Teagan?” Roman asked, kneeling before me. “What is it?”
I turned the phone toward him. “He took it.”
“What?” Roman snapped, taking my phone.
“I have nothing,” I said, more to myself than to him. “All that art I sold. Gone. My supplies. He bought. My clothes, my books…” I shook my head. “Any money I earned to get my own place, he took. I have nowhere to go.”
And those things...those material possessions I thought were mine? They weren’t really. They were his. Purchased by him and for his benefit. I hadn’t thought it at the time…
Fuck. I didn’t even want that stuff. I just wanted the one box that meant anything to me, the one I’d brought with me when I’d moved in with him.
Roman sat my phone on the counter, his eyes on mine. “I already told you, you can stay with me,” he said, and the kindness in his voice only made me cry harder. “For however long you need.”
I stood up and hugged him, cried into his chest like I had when we were kids, and my beloved dog had passed. This was a different kind of grief—one where I’d lost a chunk of my life without realizing it. One where I’d downed in a puddle of water a few inches deep, slow and agonizing.
And now that I could breathe again?
It felt like razor blades in my lungs.
Felt like shame and stupidity and fear.
Because I truly had nothing.
I’d allowed him to take everything I had.
Allowed him to shape and mold me into something perfect for him.
Allowed him to slice me into pieces until I couldn’t recognize myself anymore.
And I didn’t have a clue how to put myself back together.
3
Roman
“Good boy,” I told Walt as I filled his bowl with water. We’d just finished a seven-mile run, and the sweat dripping down my chest was starting to chill. The house was a steady seventy-degrees, just the way I liked it, but outside it was a thick, sticky ninety-one.
And it was only eleven.
I’d just grabbed a little hydration and was headed for the shower when Teagan stormed through the kitchen, bearing yet another dozen roses.
She’d been here eighteen days, and this was the eighteenth flower arrangement that the asshole had sent.
“I fucking hate roses, not that you’d ever paid attention, jackass.” She opened the trash can with her foot, then dumped the roses in bloom-first, saving the vase just like she had the previous seventeen and adding it to her growing collection on the far side of the kitchen, along with a few more expensive gifts she hadn’t touched since opening.
“How could he not know that about you?” I questioned.
She spun and gasped, her hand flying to her throat. “How long have you been there?”
My eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just got back from my run.” Damn, she was jumpy. Every time I startled her only reminded me how little I’d seen of her in the past year—and how little of that had been unchaperoned.
Her gaze skimmed over the bare skin of my chest and abs. “Right.” She blinked rapidly, looking away as her cheeks turned pink. “Don’t apologize. It’s your house. I’m the intruder.”
“You’re the guest. There’s a difference.” Hell, I’d put her on the title if it made her feel better. “Now seriously. You dated him for three years. How could he not know that your favorite flowers are lilies? Isn’t that first-year boyfriend material?” I leaned back against the counter and downed some of my recovery drink.
“It was never important enough to make an issue out of it.” She shrugged. “Besides, who complains when their boyfriend brings them roses?”
“Someone who thinks they smell like a funeral?” I suggested, tilting my head.
She looked ready to retort, but after a few seconds, she nodded. “They do.”
“Not arguing.”
She flashed me a quick smile and tucked her hair behind her ears.
Fuck, she was beautiful. Zero makeup, hair down and wild, standing barefoot in her lone pair of shorts, barely visible under one of my Raptor’s shirts. Not that she wasn’t a knockout when she got dressed up—the woman could stop traffic. But there was something about seeing her like this that had me gripping my bottle a little tighter. She was effortlessly exquisite.
“What?” she asked, glancing down like something she wore could explain the way I was obviously staring.
“You’re beautiful.”
“Shut. Up.” She scoffed and shot me a glare, just like always. “Oh, and sorry, I stole the shirt from your closet.”
Just like she had for the last eighteen days. “What’s mine is yours. Though, if you check the medicine cabinet, you’ll see that I may have run out for a few supplies while you were sleeping.”
“Like?” Her brow puckered.
“There might be a new razor in there along with some other little things I know you like.” I downed the rest of my drink.
“Is this because I was using your razor to shave my legs?” Her eyes widened. “Because I—”
“Nope. I couldn’t care less. I just figured you might be tired of smelling like me, and since you won’t let me take you shopping, I have to sneak out of my own house to buy you necessities.” I stared her down.
“I’m not letting you spend your money on me!” She folded her arms. “It’s bad enough that I’ve been in your space for weeks. Every gallery I’ve contacted has a full show schedule, but I should be signing a contract on a new commission this week that will get me out of your hair.”
I crossed the hardwood floor and tossed my empty bottle into th
e trash, which was almost full thanks to the daily rose deposit. Then I took her chin between my thumb and finger and drew her gaze to mine as her blush deepened.
“For the last time, T. I couldn’t give a shit how long you’re here. I actually like having you around. But you won’t let me buy you new clothes or even art supplies. And my shirt looks pretty damn good on you, but I know you’re getting tired of living in my clothes. Let me help. Please.”
She tugged her lower lip between her teeth.
“At least let me go pick your stuff up.”
“No!” She shook her head, pulling free of my light grasp. “I’ve already put you in the middle once. I’m not sending you over to Rick’s. No way.”
I sighed and lifted my hands to the top of my head. “Fine. If you won’t take my money or my help getting your things, then at least sell something he’s sent you. I bet that diamond necklace would get you enough supplies to complete that commission.”
She glanced back toward her stash of gifts, then scrunched her face slightly. “I can’t risk it.”
“Risk what?”
“He knows I have no money, and I won’t take yours. He probably sent that necklace knowing I’d return it. My guess is he’s camped out at the jewelry store waiting for me to show up or he’s paid someone to let him know when I do. I can’t risk it.” Her lips thinned.
My arms fell to my sides. “Jesus Christ, T. You think he’d…” I shook my head and took three breaths to calm my temper. The last thing she needed was to see me lose my shit, but I was seriously close. She clammed up every time I’d asked her about the abuse—just the word shut her down. “How bad was it?”
Her gaze fell away. “Bad enough that I know his methods for keeping tabs on me, and just how far he’ll go for control. The fact that I’m still here—and not already back at his place is actually pretty remarkable.”
The blood drained from my face. “You’re not considering going back, are you?”
“What? No!” She did the hair tuck thing again, this time out of nervous habit. “I just hate being a burden on you, especially since I know that you’re the only reason he didn’t haul me back the night I ran. It’s not the gate, or the security system, Roman. It’s you.”
Two steps and I wrapped my arms around her, tucking her against my chest and resting my chin on the top of her head. “You’re not a burden,” I said softly. “And the only way he’s getting you out of this house is over my dead fucking body.”
“I’d never let that happen,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around my waist.
“Press charges,” I begged for the hundredth time.
Usually, she just shook her head and blew me off.
“I can’t,” she admitted, her voice small as her arms tightened around me.
I wanted to pull back, to look in her eyes and demand her reasoning, but that would only get me an extra helping of silence, so instead, I waited.
“No one will believe me,” she said slowly.
“I believe you.”
“No one in law enforcement,” she corrected. “He’s a local hero, and I’m a local…nothing. I’ve seen the stats, Roman. Even if they believe me, they’re not going to do shit about it. He’s an NFL player. All it would do is horrify my parents and give the neighborhood something to gossip about.”
I speared my hands into her hair and cradled her head like I could protect her from the absolute injustice of it. I knew the stats, too. It didn’t make it right.
“You’re my local everything,” I said softly.
I felt her cheek rise against my chest. “Yeah, I love you, too.”
I squeezed my eyes shut as my chest tightened. It wasn’t new. She’d told me she loved me since we were five.
It just wasn’t the same way that I loved her.
Later that night, I stared across the blazing fire pit as Teagan laughed at something Nicole—Nixon and Liberty’s four-month-old daughter—did. Damn, she looked good with a baby on her lap. My heart twisted in simultaneous pleasure and pain—because I’d never be able to give her that.
It was just another in the long list of reasons why I kept my mouth shut about my feelings for her. She’d always wanted kids, and I couldn’t have them.
“You over the jet lag yet?” I asked Nixon as he sank into the chair next to mine.
“We’ve been home for weeks, and I swear I’m still adjusting,” he admitted, a soft smile lighting his face as he watched the same Teagan-and-Nicole show I did. He’d spent the entire off-season volunteering in Brazil with his wife, who had just earned her master’s in psychology. Guy was almost as tan as I was at this point. “But note that unlike Hendrix, I made it on time. Baby and all.”
I grinned. My phone had alerted me to the gate opening a few minutes ago, which meant Hendrix would walk in any moment. “I’m glad you came over.” My voice dropped so the girls couldn’t hear. “She needed a little human contact.”
“Anytime, but I’m pretty damned confused. She’s living here?” His gaze flickered my way. “I thought she and Rick had moved in together forever ago.”
My jaw ticked at the mention of his name.
“Something you want to tell me?” His eyes narrowed. He’d always been the most observant one on the team, which was one of the reasons he was the highest-paid quarterback in the NFL.
“It’s not something I want to tell you, but you probably need to know—”
“There he is!” Teagan called out with a wide grin as Hendrix came around the side of the house to the patio.
“In the flesh!” He threw out his arms and flashed that million-dollar smile. Between that and the dark blond hair, the guy really was Hollywood.
“I barely recognized you without some girl attached to your face,” Liberty quipped with a smirk.
“Ha. Ha.” He scooped Nicole out of Teagan’s arms and blew raspberries into her neck, eliciting a giggle from the little one. “Who says I don’t have a girl attached to my face?” he cooed.
Both the women melted.
Nixon shook his head and slowly turned my way. “You were saying?”
Teagan burst into another fit of laughter—this time directed Hendrix and Nicole’s way. I couldn’t do this here. Couldn’t ruin her night. I also couldn’t let Nixon walk into a potentially volatile situation without giving him a heads up.
“I’m grabbing a beer. You want something, T?” I called across the fire pit.
“I’m good. Thank you!”
Nixon made the same offer to Liberty, then followed me into the kitchen alone. “Spill it.”
So I did. I left out the details and gave him only what he needed to know. Rick had put his hands on Teagan, so I’d put my hands on him.
“Damn,” he breathed, folding his arms across his chest. “I knew he was a controlling son of a bitch, but I never imagined he’d been abusing her. Is she going to press charges?”
“She says it won’t do any good, and honestly, looking around the league, I can’t say I blame her. Seems like the law and the pay scale value touchdowns over character.”
Nixon’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure Rutherford would agree.”
Weston Rutherford, the owner of the Raleigh Raptors, was a solid guy—I’d give him that. But the guy had grown up with a trust fund that had allowed him to purchase the Raptors before he’d turned thirty, so I wasn’t sure he was capable of understanding the kind of financial and emotional control Rick had held over Teagan, so I stayed quiet.
“There has to be a bigger punishment than getting socked in the face,” Nixon argued.
“I’m not arguing that. I’d give just about anything for her to press charges on the prick. But it’s her decision, and after the shit he put her through, I’m not going to be the one to take her choices away. Ever. I’ll just have to settle for knowing that his punishment was losing her.” I braced my hands on the counter behind me and stared at the collection of vases.
“Was she wearing your shirt?” Nixon asked, a smirk tilting his
lips.
“Fuck off. It’s not like that. She doesn’t have anything and won’t let me buy her anything, but at least she’s not against borrowing things.” The fact that the sight of her with my number on her back got me harder than the granite under my fingers wasn’t anything I was going to admit.
“Right. And just to clarify—you’ve been in love with Teagan Hall for how many years?” He lifted his eyebrows.
“She’s my best friend.”
“Not a bad place to start.”
I shook my head. “Not in the cards. She wants things I can’t give her. Simple as that.”
“What could she possibly want that you can’t provide?” he challenged.
My jaw flexed. “Kids.”
“Shit,” he muttered. “Right. I’m sorry.”
“Moving on. I’m just her soft place to land right now, but it’s going to get really fucking awkward at training camp.” How the hell was I going to ignore Rick? Just thinking about him had my blood pressure rising.
“Yeah, well, he did that to himself. I’ve got your back, and you know Hendrix does, too. Just keep it off the field, and the team will be just fine. Then again, if you want to punch him in the middle of a fucking game, I’m good with that, too.” His face hardened. “Sorry sack of worthless shit.”
“Amen.”
I thought about his words as I lay awake that night, staring at the red numbers of my alarm clock. Maybe Nixon was right, and Rutherford was an option if Teagan wasn’t willing to press charges. But that would be a choice she’d have to make, and until then, I’d have to rein in my temper both on the field and in the locker room.
Not that I couldn’t indulge a fantasy or two about breaking every one of Rick’s fingers.
My door opened, and Teagan slipped into my bedroom. I pulled back the covers as she slid into my bed, whispering an apology.
“Don’t be sorry.” It had been like this every night since she’d come. She’d swear she could make it through the night, but then a nightmare would strike, or insomnia would get the best of her, and she’d crawl in with me.
“Don’t say that yet. I’m freezing.” She rolled and tucked herself against me, pressing her back against my chest and fitting her delicious ass right against my dick.
Roman (Raleigh Raptors Book 2) Page 3