FORCE: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (21 page)

Emmy

The minute I stepped back into our penthouse, I tore the dress off of me and let it fall into an unceremonious heap on the floor. 

Fuck that dress.  And fuck tonight.

I wobbled there in our living room, alone in my underwear.  My head was spinning.  I was too keyed up to sleep, even though I knew it was best if I was in bed when Robert got home.

I kicked off my stupid shoes, flinging them across the wide expanse of floor. One slid under the sofa, the other shot into the gourmet kitchen we had never once cooked in.  In the back of my head I knew I would forget the shoe was under the couch.  I should retrieve it, I told myself, but was too drunk to risk bending over. 

Instead I padded barefoot into the kitchen and ran a glass of water from the tap.  Robert would have been appalled to see me drink tap water, but he wasn't home from the benefit dinner yet, so I was allowed my small lapses.  I gulped the cold water greedily, hoping it would stop my head from spinning.  And then out of habit I opened the refrigerator.

I sighed when I saw the options.  "Fucking rabbit food," I muttered and my stomach growled in solidarity.  Desperate for carbs, I defrosted a baguette I found in the freezer and dribbled it with olive oil and salt.  Robert didn't let me keep butter in the house.  He claimed it was too much temptation and that he was only looking out for my health.  I was lucky to have a fiancé who cared as much as he did.  The thought made me feel guilty and I hastily threw out the rest of the bread before I could spoil my diet any further.  My stomach growled in protest, but I took a few deep breaths.  I had already made enough of a spectacle of myself tonight.  What would Robert think if he walked into the penthouse right now and caught me eating frozen bread in my underwear?

Chastened by the thought, I carefully picked up my wayward shoe and went back into the living room.  I leaned over, reaching under the sofa.  The water in my stomach sloshed around with the wine and my head spun. 

I couldn't let Robert be the one to find the shoe there. 

They needed to go back up onto the proper shelf.  I gritted my teeth and swallowed back the nausea that was already setting in.  Yanking the shoe back out from under the couch, I bundled everything up in my dress and hurried up the stairs.  Every sound of the street below sounded like Robert coming home and catching me.  He had explicitly told me to go home and go to bed.  I had drunk too much wine and was embarrassing myself and him.  I was too drunk to protest when he shoved me into the car and shut the door. In actuality I was slightly grateful to be allowed to leave the benefit dinner early. 

The speeches had droned on and on.  I could feel the wives of the other board members looking at me with disapproval as I knocked back glass after glass of white wine. But I couldn't stop.  The wine calmed my nerves.  It also prevented me from cringing every time someone asked me a question.

And what do you do?
I never knew how to answer that.  I went to college for art. I was a student at The University of the Arts.   Or at least I was until I met Robert.  Now I spent my days waiting for him to come home. 

"I'm an artist!" I would sing out, hoping the financial wizards of Robert's boardroom would find that boring enough to leave at that.

Really?
  But they never did.  They would look at me incredulously instead.

How did you two meet?
This was my least favorite question. 

The truth was mundane and unflattering.  I was moonlighting as a waitress - oh who am I kidding, waitressing was my career - and Robert came in for a drink one night.  He had let me know almost immediately who he was and then absorbed my flattery as I flirted to get more tips.  He was gorgeous and I was astonished at his attention. The night had ended with him bringing me home to his penthouse in Rittenhouse Square - and then I never left.

"At a bar!" I would laugh, self-deprecatingly.  Then their eyes would move to my left hand.

When is the wedding?
I didn't know how to answer that either.  The wedding was something that loomed on the horizon but never materialized.  If I ever pushed the issue, Robert would shake his head at me for being a "typical woman," and tease me about being 'Bridezilla.'

"Haven't set a date just yet, it depends on my father's health."  That usually shut them up.  No one wanted to be the rude person to inquire about my family's heath problems.  No one needed to know that my dad's health would greatly improve if he put down the bottle.

Well then, aren't you lucky to have met a man like Robert?
This was my favorite question because it let me off the hook. 

Usually they would launch into some story about Robert I had already heard.  How wonderful Robert is, or how good at sports Robert was, or how they'd known Robert since he was young.  'Such a bright boy.' Then I could lean back and nod, and gulp my wine while they sang my fiancé’s praises. All I needed to do then was smile adoringly at him, wherever he was. 

Because he usually wasn't sitting next to me at this point.  The pattern rarely changed.  From the minute we walked into the door at these functions, Robert would abandon me.  I was left at our table to stare at whatever power couple was seated there.  He would be off pressing the flesh and making backroom deals. 

You would think I would be able to relax because of this. But I still had to be on my guard.  I needed to be wary just in case he appeared at my shoulder to hiss at me.
Sit up straight, I can see right down your cleavage, what're you doing, putting yourself on display like that? Don't you think you've had enough to drink; you're just like your father, aren't you? Talk to people; don't just sit there like a lump.  Did you spill on your dress?  Are you kidding me?

Tonight it had been a triple whammy.  I was self-conscious about making sure my ample cleavage was contained in my strapless tomato dress.  My embarrassment made me even clumsier than usual.  When I spilled the wine that I had been sucking down like a floozy, Robert had swooped over me in a flurry of apologies to our dinner companions.  Clapping his jacket over my shoulders with an exasperated grin to my tablemates, he hustled me out of the glittering ballroom. Before I could think I was in the back of our hired car. 

Go home and sleep it off.  You're embarrassing yourself.

I hung the dress over my closet door and smoothed my hand over the wine-stain.  I would need to take it to the cleaners tomorrow.  I was oddly elated at the thought of having something to do.

I brushed my teeth woozily, staring at myself in the mirror.  My round, pale cheeks were still flushed from the wine, giving the illusion of cheekbones.  The pink set off the pale blue of my eyes that were still shiny with drink.  For a moment I felt pretty, there in our huge en suite bathroom.  I turned my face to the side to take in my profile.  My silly little turned up nose made me look younger than my twenty-one years. My white-blond, baby fine waves made me look even younger. 

I was regularly mistaken for a high schooler when I fell back into my old habits of slobbing around in jeans and a concert tee.  As I scrubbed the lacquered on makeup from my face, my reflection looked back at me.  Once I clean of the artifice, I looked just like the big-boned, big breasted, Pennsylvania farm girl I was. I had been playing dress-up tonight.  I wasn't made for ball gowns and benefit dinners. 

It was Robert who made me pretend.

I slipped into our giant bed and ran my fingers over the thousand thread-count sheets Robert insisted we buy.  Once again I tried to tell the difference between these sheets and the sheets I had grown up with.  When we officially moved in together, Robert shoved all my old clothes and bedding into a box and left it in the trash room.  I had dared to go back down there and retrieve the old, threadbare blankets that had been my comfort through my childhood.  I had hugged those blankets as I listened to my father rage at my mom and then go silent as she sobbed.  I would hide under those blankets in my closet as my mother vented her anger on my younger brother.  If Robert found them secreted high in my closet, he would be furious with me.  But I couldn't let them go. 

I still felt like I needed them.

I rolled onto my back and willed myself to sleep, but the room was still spinning.  I drifted in and out of a fitful, dreamless sleep.  The noise of the street below was far off, but every slamming door made me jump.  I wondered how much longer he would be.  He had been coming home late from the office all week; I don't know why I expected him home on a weekend. 

Just as sleep finally overcame me, I heard the bell of our private elevator and my eyes flew open.  I mentally went over my checklist.  The frozen baguette was stashed deep in the trash; he'd never find that.  My dress was hung carefully.  I had retrieved my shoes; did I put them back in the closet?  I clenched my fists, unable to remember if I had or not.  I decided to hope I had and moved on.  Teeth were brushed so my breath wouldn't offend him.  Face was washed so I wouldn't look slovenly in the morning.  I was in bed like he had told me to be. 

I might be okay.

I rolled onto my side, facing away from the door just as his footstep creaked in the doorway.  I heard him sigh and then the rustle of his clothes as he took off his suit.  The light of his closet came on as he opened it to put away his shoes and I squeezed my eyes tighter.  I held my breath, listening, trying to discern his mood.  A couple splashes of the tap and then I felt his side of the bed dip down as he sat and removed his watch and laid it on his bedside table. 

Then he slipped under the sheets next to me.

His breath was slow and relaxed and I felt my fists unclench.  He didn't seem angry.  I inhaled deeply.

There was a scent to the air.  Floral, yet spicy.  Perfume. 

And it wasn't mine.

I ran my hand up the sheets.  I still couldn't feel the difference.  Hugging my pillow, I squeezed my eyes shut. I thought about anything and everything else until Robert's breathing slowed and I could tell he was asleep.  When I was finally sure he wasn't going to talk to me, I was able to relax enough to fall asleep too.

Chapter 3

Emmy

The morning sun reflected off of the gleaming stainless steel of the stovetop. I squinted in the gare, wavering slightly on my perch at the breakfast bar, then ducked my aching head.

"Would you like some more coffee?"

I snapped my head back up to look at Robert.  He smiled at me and shook the carafe invitingly.  "You probably need it.  How's your head?"

I shifted in my chair and gingerly touched my finger to my temple.  "Not as bad as it could be, I guess."  I smiled to bolster the lie.

He smiled again.  I waited, expecting him to scold me for drinking.  I waited for the accusations that I was turning into my father.  But they didn't come. 

"Here, have a half a cup," he murmured, topping off my mug.  "More Splenda?"

I looked at him, surprised.  "Really?"

"Just be good the rest of the day." He bent his head to brush his warm, soft lips across mine.  I felt my body reach for him, wanting more.  Whatever I had done to make him so happy with me, I wanted to continue doing. 

"I will," I promised. 

My diet hadn't been going well.  The weight was still coming off too slowly for Robert's liking.   I resolved then and there to try harder.  When Robert was happy with me, it was like the sun shining full on my face.  I basked in it. He was so handsome and he took care of me so well.  All the criticism was only because I needed it.  Without him I was pretty much lost, a lazy, deluded child who needed him to help me make my way in the world.  I owed him everything.  I loved him dearly.

That perfume smell could have been anything.  Soap from the washroom, remnants from sitting near a colleague.  It didn't mean anything.  I was an ungrateful fool for even worrying about it.

He smiled indulgently, as if reading my thoughts, and rounded the island in the center of our kitchen to top off his cup.  The buzzing of his Blackberry was incessant, but he was uncharacteristically ignoring it. I sat up straighter, ignoring the pounding in my head. 

"So what do you have planned for today?" he inquired.

I racked my brain to come up with something before he lost interest in me again.  "Well, I need to take my dress to the cleaners.  Would you like me to drop off your suit too?"

He waved his hand, "Oh don't worry about that stuff, Emilia.  How many times have I told you to leave it for Carmen?"

I sat back in my chair. 

"Sorry, I forgot."  I waited to see if I had screwed up.

But he merely took a sip of his coffee and glanced at the paper on his Ipad. "Anything else?"

I squirmed, feeling put on the spot.  My aching head confused me. Before I could catch myself, the words tumbled out of my mouth. "I'm going to have lunch with Sammie."

Instantly his dark brows knitted together.  I felt my stomach sink at my stupidity.  "That braying bitch?  I thought you were done with her."

I swallowed.  I wanted to let Sammie go, but my best friend was too persistent.  She still called and texted me when all my other college friends had dropped one by one.  She refused to let me go.

Deep inside, I was grateful for that, though I would never say so to Robert.

"She uh, has a contact for me," I lied.  Quickly I put the lie together in my head.  It was a gift I had acquired early as a matter of survival.  "A portrait commission."

"Oh?" Robert's eyebrow shot up quizzically and I frantically embellished.

"Just a preliminary, I'm dropping off a portfolio CD with her to bring to the guy, but part of the deal was that we have lunch together."

"Well," Robert wavered for a moment and I clenched my fists. "Okay then, congratulations I guess."

I could tell by the way that the vein beat at his temple that he was suppressing his anger.  Robert thought it was silly that I still clung to being an artist, but it pleased him to play the role of the indulgent fiancé.

I sagged with relief.  He went over to the counter and peeled off several bills from his wallet.  "I assume you'll need money for this lunch.

I took his offering gratefully.  "Thank you honey," I breathed.  "I love you!"

"Have fun," he chuckled.  Bending over me once more, he brushed his warm lips across my cheek.  I felt the warmth spread through my body and closed my eyes. 

"I hope you'll be here when I get home," he continued.

"Of course I will!' I nodded.

"Okay then, have a good day." He grabbed his briefcase and made his way to our elevator, scrolling through all the emails that he had missed while paying attention to me.

I watched him go, the elevator closing on his tall, lean form, then exhaled slowly.  The aching in my head subsided. I looked down and noted with surprise that my fists were balled tightly at my side.  I unclenched them and forced my shoulders to go down. 

Then I sprinted up the staircase and into our room.  I counted the money Robert had handed me, then peeled off two of the twenties. 

The envelope was still taped under the top drawer of my nightstand.  I opened it and took out the stack of bills hidden inside.  I did this every time Robert gave me money.  The stack was growing quickly: twenties, tens, fives and ones all added up to more than four hundred dollars at this point. 

I don't know why I stashed the money.  I told myself it was because I want to be able to buy him something nice someday.  A gift, with my own money.

That was what I repeated to myself every time.  But I hadn't bought him a single thing yet. 

And the stack kept growing.