Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

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.