Twelve of Roses

“Do you know what this means for us?” he asked, breaking the tense silence while readjusting his pants.

That I can never look you in the eye again, and your sister will probably crucify me.

No,” I mumbled, wishing he’d just move out of the way so I could bolt from his room.

Of course, he did the total opposite of that, and stepped forward so we were once again chest to chest.

“It means you’re with me now.” He cupped my left cheek, stroking it with his thumb.

“What do you mean, I’m with you?” I questioned slowly, hearing what he was saying but not believing it.

“I didn’t think I’d be this nervous.” He laughed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Nervous about what?” Confusion had to be evident on my face. We’d just had sex on his floor; if that wasn’t an ice-breaker, what was?

“I’ve been waiting for you for so long,” he exhaled on a shaky breath. “You’re my girl now, Rosie. Do you understand what that means?”

I simply blinked at him, tongue-tied all over again. There was a very foolish side of me that was absolutely overjoyed at hearing those words. And then there was the logical part of me, warning that this would never work.

“Con,” I sighed dejectedly.

It was supposed to be me making unrequited confessions about my lustful obsession, not him.

Suddenly, all I wanted to do was hunt down a morning after pill and crawl into my bed. I didn’t want to be the voice of reason in this moment. It was becoming ruined and tarnished, like everything else I thought was perfect.

“I’ll make you happy, I promise,” he swore vehemently.

“Why would you—” I paused and took in the look on his face. He was being disturbingly sincere. “We don’t even know each other,” I whispered, taking a small step back.

“See, but we do.” He quickly closed the distance between us and grabbed my hands. “You came to visit your grandfather with your parents over the summer.”

He slid his arms around my waist, grabbing my ass and pulling me against him.

A little click went off in my mind as faint realization dawned. Goosebumps erupted on my flesh as his confession took residence in my head.

“That was almost four years ago.”

“I know. I’ve been waiting on you ever since. You were wearing a purple sundress.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, then brought his thumb to my trembling lips.

“You came right through the crosswalk and smiled at me. You were just as beautiful then as you are now.” He smoothed his thumb over my mouth, smiling down at me with a faraway look in his eye

I lost all ability to speak. The situation laid out before me was so ridiculous it could have been fiction. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen in real life.

My parents and I had gone to meet my grandfather at the bistro downtown.

It was my birthday dinner, the last night my parents were alive. I was only fourteen. How the hell did he remember that?

Something about that wasn’t adding up. The last time I saw him was in a courtroom. And I was certain he hadn’t been aware of me.

Right when I opened my mouth to ask for some clarification, Vicky pounded on the door.

“What the hell are you two doing?”

What an excellent question.

If this were a movie, it would be the part that would freeze-frame before a wise narrator began to explain all the ways Constantine Burrows was going to tear my world apart and drag me down to hell.

“Con, I should—”

“No,” he growled, like a Tasmanian devil, and gently pushed me back towards his bed. “I can handle her. I’ll decide when you leave this room.” He smiled innocently at me, all signs of anger gone.

He was good.

“In the morning?” I asked softly, going back to the demure girl he knew me as.

“In the morning. Now get in bed and lie on your back. I’ll only be a minute.” He slipped out of the room and shut the door behind them.

His and Vicky’s whispered words carried down the hallway, too low for me to hear them. Looking over at his bed, I began taking everything off and doing as he told me.

Little did I know that no one would see the girl they knew as Roselynn Morgue for a very long time.

Chapter Eight

Present

It was never okay to ring a doorbell at seven in the morning. Especially mine. My big house was virtually empty, making the chimes that much louder and my head throb. Not having to work until four, I’d planned on sleeping in. The person continuously ringing my doorbell had blown that plan to shit.

Stumbling off my air mattress, I scrubbed a hand over my face, ambling to the front door. A steady drip, drip sound came from the living room, signaling that the water dripping from the ceiling was close to overflowing the bucket.