Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

I heave out a groan. I do not want to be on a stage. I picture me up there, weaving on my feet, my face bloodred, trying to get the words out. Hell no. My heart races at the mere thought.

He reads me. “Do you have any clue how hard it is to manage you when you aren’t helping? Just go, and see what happens. Maybe you can be an assistant to the director or some shit.”

I nod, not liking the anxiousness in the pit of my stomach. “Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder. “She still hasn’t signed the NDA. Told me so at the door. What the fuck? And she’s here now? One word to the press about an injury and—”

“She knows about the shoulder. She was there when it happened.”

Lawrence lets out a string of curses.

“She won’t tell, Lawrence.”

“Uh-huh. You’ve known this girl for three fucking days.” He shakes his head. “Be glad Sophia never knew that injury keeps popping up.”

True. Sophia knew about the scar because everyone in my hometown knew the details of that story, and it has circulated around me for years. Plus, Harvey’s sister wrote her article. I never got around to telling Sophia about my occasional pain, mostly because it happened rarely. I hesitated when it came to her, which should have been a clue that she was wrong for me.

Yet I told Elena. I could have brushed it off as a minor football thing, but I didn’t. I told her the story from start to finish, and I can’t recall doing that since Devon.

Lawrence is giving me details about Timmy’s school in Daisy, quieting when Elena walks back in the room. She doesn’t meet my gaze. Her clothes have been straightened, and her hair is smooth, the long strands gleaming, as if she’s brushed it. Fresh red lipstick is on her lips. She snatches the papers from the table and sits down at the desk a few feet away from us, her head bent as she thumbs through them, pointedly ignoring us.

Great. I run my hands through my hair.

“Is that all, Lawrence? We’re waiting for lunch to arrive.” I give him a pointed look. Get the fuck out.

He nods and pivots. “Don’t see me out. I know you’re hurting. I’ll let you know what day and time for the school thing plus the other we discussed.” He gives a nod at Elena. “Nice to meet you, Elena.”

She never looks up. “Of course.”

I grimace. Her voice is quiet, polite, exceedingly so. But she didn’t say Nice to meet you too.

Lawrence is oblivious and glances at me and gives me a thumbs-up and leaves.

I walk over to her, taking in the stiffness of her shoulders. “Elena . . .”

She holds a hand up. “Nope. Let me finish reading this fascinating document—which is backdated to Valentine’s Day, by the way.”

I cringe, knowing exactly what else is in those papers: a firm statement about consent and age; explicit description of sexual acts she’d do, from foreplay to anal, things she puts a check next to or doesn’t; an agreement of complete confidentiality for the entirety of her life, right down to the details of personal information including my cell number, the Wi-Fi password at the penthouse, the location of my apartment, even Lucy’s address in Brentwood. Lawrence and my lawyer came up with the language.

“What did Lawrence say to you?” Part of me is anxious at her expression—the other side of me, well, I want her to sign it.

“He’s a jerk.”

“He’s my jerk. Elena.”

She ignores me, her fingers trembling as she turns the page. “What strikes me as the most ludicrous is that you’d actually sue me for five million dollars if I speak to anyone about our private life. Hate to tell you, but Topher and Aunt Clara know we had sex. Already told him, and he told her. No telling who she might tell. She’s a stylist at a beauty shop in a gossipy small town. You should hear the things they talk about in there.”

She’s trying to get a rise out of me.

“Good luck,” she adds. “I don’t have any money. All I have is my house, and it’s not worth that. We might be in court for years.”

“Elena, please—”

“No, you don’t have the right to say my name like that.” She dips her head, her hair swinging to cover her face. “This is so . . . ridiculous and grotesque. I must have been trashed. What was I thinking?”

I lean against the wall at the disdain in her voice. Shit.

“I wish . . . I wish I had read it, because I never would have had sex with you, Jack.”

A long sigh comes from me. “It would make me feel better about us, Elena. Think about it. You sign, and we can start all over again—”