Jock Romeo (Jock Hard 6)

“Have you ever had a job?”

Other than the occasional babysitting gig? “No, I never had the time. You?”

“Yes, I actually used to work for my family. My grandfather owns—well, he died, but it’s still in the family—an industrial factory, and I spend my summers in an assembly line plating paperclips and other office supplies.” Roman picks at the threads of his jeans. “The pay is shit, but I have to do it.”

“That sounds, um…”

“Boring. That sounds boring—you can say it.” He laughs. “Trust me, I could do it with my eyes closed—that’s how long I’ve been at it, and I only get half-hour breaks. Once, I had someone try to break into my car while it was parked outside because the factory is in the city and Grandpa gave zero fucks about security.”

“At least you’re making money.”

He grunts. “Barely. Like I said, he never paid me shit. And now my uncle owns it and he’s worse. This was my last summer, and I hope I’m not around next year.”

“Where will you be?”

“Traveling.” He gets quiet for a few seconds. “I’ve been applying for grants and scholarships—fingers crossed.”

Roman crosses his fingers and holds them out the way my girlfriends and I sometimes will when we need good luck, and I cross mine for him, too.

“Well, I hope it all goes well for you.” I sigh, peering into the abyss that is the party down on the lower level. The music is still blasting and people keep coming through the front door, arriving into the late hours. “I’m sure I’ll still be here in a few years, doing the same ol’ same ol’.”

“The good news is, we’ll be done in four years.”

“That’s true.” Then I can get an apartment far from my mother and her controlling ways. “Well…” I breathe out. Toy with the bracelet around my wrist and slowly slide it off. “We should probably get back to the party.”

“Probably.” He stands.

I stand. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too.” His hands get stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, and I realize then how tall Roman actually is. It feels like he’s towering over me, even though I’m standing on the step above him.

Six two? Six three?

Hard to say, but I find myself craning my neck to get a look at his face, the lenses from his glasses catching the light.

“Do you suppose I’ll see you around?”

His shoulders shrug. “I’m not a fan of parties, and as it is, I still have to drive home.”

Oh.

Duh—no wonder he hasn’t been drinking. He has to drive. Fifteen minutes I think he said it was? Yuck.

“This was fun though. Thank you for keeping me company.”

“I wasn’t keeping you company, you were keeping me company.”

That makes me smile.

“Here.” Impulsively I hold the bracelet out to him. “This is for good luck this year.”

He hesitates in the dim light before his hand reaches out to take it from me. Slides it onto his own wrist.

He won’t know until he steps into the light that it’s hot pink and lime green, but it’s the thought that counts anyway, isn’t it?

“Thanks.”

“Does it fit?”

Roman smiles. “It fits.”

“Well.” I take a few steps down. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

“Good luck on Monday,” he tells me.

“Good luck.”

1

ROMAN

THREE YEARS LATER

I cannot keep living here.

My parents and family are driving me nuts, and I’ve only been back for two weeks. School starts in three days, and I’ve barely had time to unpack, let alone get all the things done that my mother has demanded from me, like driving Aunt Myrtle to her physical therapy appointments.

I’ve been gone only one semester, but it feels like I’ve been away for an eternity. At the same time, it feels like I’ve only been gone a day, my family not missing a beat when it comes to needing my help.

Damn I miss the UK.

Last year I was fortunate enough to be the recipient of a lucrative educational scholarship to study abroad, and I took it without hesitating; it paid for my room, boarding, and my meals. I studied with the best of the best—some of the most brilliant minds in the world.

And now I’m being told what to do by an eighty-three-year-old woman with purple hair, pink lipstick, and rhinestone glasses. She’s a cross between Dame Edna and Elton John, and she is pursing her lips at me in a judgmental way as I wait too long at the stop sign.

“Can’t you go any faster?” she asks.

“We’re at a stop sign,” I tell her. “I’m actually not supposed to be driving at all.”

Aunt Myrtle looks out the window to the right. “I don’t see any cops around.”

The last thing I need is to get pulled over and ticketed before classes start—I have to commute.

“I don’t need my driving record gone to shit because you have a lead foot, Aunt Myrt.”