FORCE: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (48 page)

J.

He had only been sleeping next to her for a week, but he was already used to her being there. The sheets were permeated with her scent and the smell of the two of them mingled together.  He rolled over onto the pillow and inhaled the perfume of her hair, then got angry when he felt himself stiffen helplessly. Waking up without her soft body snuggled close to him left a void in his chest that pain rushed in to fill.

If he had known where she was, maybe he could have held some of the bad thoughts at bay, but his brain kept forcing him to picture her going back to Robert.  As he turned to lay face up in his cot, his traitorous mind played out the scene in minute detail.  Robert's sneering face as he looked down at Emmy, thrilled to have her in his grasp again.  Emmy's tears as she swallowed her pride and begged him to take her back.  To let her back into the penthouse and off the streets because J. hadn't cared enough to notice she had no home besides his.

Fuck.

The anger propelled him out of his cot and to his feet.  With a strangled cry he whirled and sank his fist into the perfumed pillow.  It connected with a dull thud. 

It was completely unsatisfying.

He moved through the garage in a daze.  He could see Case in the corner, fiddling with some shipments.  The big man moved slowly, still babying his injured ribs.  J. coughed to catch his attention, but Case acted as if he didn't hear.

J. needed a distraction.  He went into the office to grab the order slips from the inbox.  There was still a stack a half an inch thick.  He leafed through them uncomprehendingly, then shook his head and tried to focus. Three after-market kits to install.  A tricky new 120 cubic inch motor to add to a soft-tail.  Two metal-flake paint jobs for a picky but very well-off repeat customer.  And it was all rush stuff that needed to be done yesterday.  Focused, finicky work that required his undivided attention.

Fuck.

Riding would help, he told himself as he made his way to his bike.  A ride would clear his head, then he would come back and work on his orders.  He would strategize with Case about tomorrow's peace meeting.  He wouldn't think about Emmy and her backpack anymore.  He wouldn't worry about where or who she ended up with.  He wouldn't think about her, unsafe and alone, her small fists clenched the way he had taught her.

Fuck.

He meant to aim his bike for the entrance to 95.  Ride north until he shook himself free of the city's clutches.  Head into the rolling hills along the Delaware River, maybe loop around west through the country roads of Bucks County. 

Why the hell was he riding through Center City?

His bike was driving itself, weaving through traffic, turning right and left, right and left.  He was almost surprised when he pulled up in front of the building on 18th. 

He hit the throttle a few times.  The bike's roar echoed across Rittenhouse Square, rolling up the apartment building.  Up to the twentieth floor.  If she was there, maybe she would hear it and come down. 

Or maybe Robert would come down and he could kick his ass properly like he should have from the very beginning.  While Emmy watched with a smile on her face.

He hit the throttle again.  "Asshole!" he shouted up to the sky.  "Hey asshole!  Where is she?!"

When the lobby doors opened he almost believed it had worked.  But it wasn't Robert's sneering face that saw him idling there.

It was the lobby guard.  Officer Wilkens, Emmy had called him.  The one who had spied on her, and told Robert where to find him.  The former cop took one startled look at J. and rushed back into the lobby. J. could see his silhouette through the tinted glass.  He was picking up a phone.

Fuck. 

J. roared away, hot flames of unspent rage licking at his cheeks.  The last thing he needed was to be taken down by a rent-a-cop for stalking.  Especially since Robert had already tried to get him back in jail once. 

He wished he could sink his fists into Robert's face without consequence.  He could already feel it in his itching fingers.  Smashing his nose into bloody fragments and watching him double over screaming.  Cracking him backwards with another hook and hearing the crunch of his newly broken jaw.  In his mind he kept punching, over and over, raining down hellfire and justice with superhuman strength.  Bringing this arrogant asshole the kind of comeuppance that he would never receive in real life.  The only way to make him pay for what he did to Emmy was to make him suffer to the very end.

His anger roared and he reveled in it.  He wanted to pick at this wound, watch it bleed and fester.  He wanted to prod at his pain, make it flare to life.  Emmy was gone, his club was slipping away, he couldn't kill Robert without consequence....

His bike was leading him to the house on Dauphin Street. 

Here was the perfect place to let his anger loose.  He would call Randall out and let him feel the weight of his betrayal behind his fists.  It was beyond time for his debt to be paid in broken bones and blood.

As he slowed down to make the turn, he spied a figure on the roof of the rowhome.  As he neared the house, the figure stood up from his stooped position.  Wiping his brow with a cloth, he looked down at the street, then shoved the cloth into the back pocket of his cargo shorts. 

With his shirt off, Randall looked even less imposing than he did in a polo shirt.  The soft, saggy plane of his chest sloped into a rounded belly that stood out in front of him. He looked like a pregnant woman, J. decided. 

How was he supposed to hit a man like that?

Randall shielded his eyes against the searing sun.  J. didn't know why he was acting like he couldn't see who was here.  What other black leather clad motherfucker would be rolling up on a custom chopper in front of this house?  He hit the throttle angrily, sending a blast of sound rolling down the claustrophobic street.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Randall put his foot carefully on the ladder.  Slowly and cautiously, he made his inexorable way down to the street level. 

When he finally stood on the sidewalk in front of J., he could see the rivers of sweat pouring from Randall's forehead.  He looked like he was seconds away from dying of heatstroke.   The sight of him pissed J. off.

"You playin' handyman now?" he spat.  "You even know what the fuck you're doing up there?" He flexed his knuckles, feeling the surge of power his rage gave him.  Yeah, he could definitely hit a man like that.  This was a long time coming and he was going to enjoy every minute of it.  "Playin' man of the house or some shit?"

Randall held up his hands for calm.  "I'm not playin'," he said, his voice low and calm.  "I am."

"The fuck you say?" J. almost hit him right then.

"I say I am the man of the house."

"Ruin my life and then step in to replace me, I ought to kill you right now."

"You want to hit me, J.?"

His fingers itched.  "Yeah, I really fucking do."

"Fine." Randall crossed his arms behind his back and sucked in his gut.  "Hit me.  If it'll make it up to you, go."

J. wavered.  He wanted begging and screaming.  Not this.  He didn't want Randall taking it like a man.

"You think this will make it up to me?" he snarled, stalling for time.

"Are you gonna do it?" Randall's voice was tight, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Fuck you!" J roared across the space between them.  But when his fist sank into that soft gut, he recoiled, pulling back at the last second. 

He had barely touched him, but still Randall grimaced. His breath left him with a high whooshing sound, and he sank to one knee.

J. tasted hot bile in the back of his throat and wondered if he was going to be sick.

"I tried," Randall gasped from the baking pavement.  "I've been trying.  To make it up."

"The fuck are you talking about."

J. felt impatient and very annoyed.  This was the least satisfying punch he had ever thrown, as useless as punching his pillow.  All the joy had gone out of his anger as soon as he had struck Randall.  What was left was just numb sadness.

Randall struggled to his feet, still gasping.  The sweat was running rivers down his face and he squinted as the droplets licked his eyes. 

"That's why I'm here, Jerry." J. flinched at the name, but let him continue.  "To make it up.  When you got sent to prison, they were lost.  Your mama doesn't know how to do...," he paused and his mouth twisted into a sick little smile, "well much of anything by way of repairs.  Didn't even know how to put in the air conditioner that first summer." He pointed to the second story bedroom.  "She nearly killed somebody walking by on the sidewalk when it fell outta her window."

A small smile tried to twist J.'s lips.  He wouldn't let it.

"It was the least I could do." Randall continued, finding his breath finally.  "I started coming by.  Your mama, man, she kept me runnin'."

The smile tried again.  This time J. had to duck his head.

"I tried, Jerry.  To take care of them.  For you.  Because I knew that the whole reason you weren't there to do it yourself was cause of me." Randall lifted his chin.  "I've regretted it every day."

The ground seemed unsteady under J.'s feet.  He wavered, wanting to scoff.  "But, Janelle?  My own fucking sister?"

Randall grinned and looked down at the pavement.  "I kept coming by and coming by and then, fuck, I just fell in love with her.  Some days I wish I hadn't, man.  That girl has got a mouth on her."

This time the smile won, but only for a second. 

"How can we be square, J.?" Randall extended his hand.  "How can I ever make it up to you?  Can we ever get to a point where you stop breaking their hearts?"

"I don't know." It hurt to see Randall looking at him that way.  Things had shifted. It felt like he was the bad guy now.  J. backed away, moving towards his bike, the only place where anything made sense anymore.

"Tell me and I'll do it," Randall's voice was vehement.  "You understand?  You tell me what you need for me to do to make it up and I'll fucking do it.  No questions asked."

J. waited for it to come to him.  The two men stared at each other on the baking sidewalk as J. wracked his brain for the answer.  The prickles of sweat that started at his hairline became rivers that streamed down his face.  "There isn't a single thing that you can give that would be worth what you've already taken from me," he said without anger.  He felt a strange calm settle over him.  "There's nothing you can do," he repeated and this time the words sounded sad.

Emmy

The breeze from the open window lifted the frilly white curtains I had chosen as an eighth birthday present.

It was cooler out here in the country.  The oppressive heat of Philadelphia was a living thing in the summer time.  Here I could dare to open my windows at night without fear of sweltering to death.  The sticky, damp heat didn't settle into the room here like it did in the clubhouse.

Shit.
I rolled over into my pillow and cursed my traitorous mind for reminding me of waking up in the clubhouse.  I cursed it for letting me remember lying in J.'s arms so clearly that I might very well be wrapped in them now.  When he held me so close I felt my heart would overflow.  The love would wash over me in such a crashing wave that I could drown in it, never coming up for air again. 

Fuck him for making me feel that way.

The sudden anger took me by surprise.  I hated him for making me love him as much as I did.  Because he clearly loved quite a few things more than he loved me.  His anger.  His regrets.  His resentments.  They all were much more important for him to hold on to than holding on to me.

For the first time since I'd left the clubhouse, the tears for what I had abandoned started to flow.  I cried because as much as I hated how J. had treated me, I still loved him with all of my heart.

I wanted to be angry at him. But I couldn't. My love for him forced me to understand and forgive.

The tears flowed hot and heavy as I wept in frustration over the injustice of it all.

The breeze puffed into the room, rustling the leaves outside of my window and the familiar sound quieted my tears.  I rolled over to watch my curtains again. I watched them flick and flit, rising and falling, and for one brief moment, things weren't complicated.  I could be eight again, here in my tiny room.  I could hide here forever, refusing to walk out the door and re-enter the turmoil of my life.  I could lie here in bed as the morning sun tilted through the window to shine a square of light on the carpet. I could just stay here, watching it move and change shape as the day wore on.  Listening to my mother's happy humming outside my bedroom door.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and sat up instead.  Something inside of me was taking shape.  My tears had washed away the dirt and grime from something inside of me that was now shining clearly.   I just needed to figure out what it was.

My mother's humming moved past my door and I heard her tread on the staircase.  The sound brought me back to myself and where I was.  It had cheered me as a little girl, but now it set me on edge.  After last night's fight, any normal person would be sullen and sulking.  The humming unnerved me enough to propel me from bed and into the day.

Andy was awake too, standing shirtless in the hallway and rubbing his hands through his wild hair.  His eyes were barely open, but the set of his jaw was already tense. 

"They were up talking a long time last night," he muttered to me by way of greeting. He nodded his tousled head in the direction of the humming.  "That's odd."  He grimaced and poked the carpet with his toes.  "Makes me nervous that she's planning something."

The musical lilt moved about downstairs.  I could picture my mother sashaying happily from room to room, going about her chores like some fairy tale character summoning the woodland creatures to do her bidding.

"She sounds happy," I observed dumbly.

"She's only happy when she gets her way."

"But what's her way?"

"That's what I'm worried about."  Andy shuffled past me towards the bathroom. 

My mother's voice sounded in the hallway below.  "Are you kids up?" Her tone was light and loving.  My tired heart leaped at the sound, ignoring the warning from my brain.  I rushed to the top of the stairs. 

"There's my princess," she cooed.

Be careful
my head warned.  But my heart gushed instead.  "Hi mommy!"

"I'm making breakfast.  Pancakes from scratch. In celebration of your homecoming."

My head whirled.  I tried to make what I heard last night make sense with the cooing, humming apparition in front of me and failed.

"Great!" I hopped, just like a child.  I don't know why.

She smiled widely.  "I've missed you, princess."

I felt a twist in my chest.  Like my hardened heart had wrenched itself open.  I was being dumb and incautious, I knew this.  But the starved part of me that still yearned for her unconditional love and approval burst out of its hiding place and jumped up and down eagerly. 

"I've missed you too, mommy."  There were tears at the edge of my voice.

"Come on down when you're ready, I'll keep them warm."

"I'm ready now."  I thundered down the stairs two at a time to make her laugh.  She obliged prettily, tossing her head back.  Her carefully lined lips curved winningly over her still white teeth.  With the sparkle dancing in her pale blue eyes, she ran her long fingers through her carefully arranged bob and tucked in a few errant strands. It dawned on me that my mother was a beautiful woman when she smiled. 

I smiled too and sat down eagerly at the table.

"I thought maybe we could get lunch later.  Someplace nice." She stood over me, petting my head and stroking her fingers through my hair until I practically purred under her touch.  "Just a mother daughter thing."

"Of course," I thought for a moment.  "But I don't really have anything nice to wear."

"You may borrow something of mine if you'd like."

I felt a twist of shame in my belly.  "Mom, we're not the same size."

"Oh," she paused. "I thought you were looking smaller these days."

The memory of her words last night put me immediately on guard.  She didn't think I was smaller at all. 

"Nope," I gritted through a plastered on smile.  "Haven't managed to lose a pound."

"Hmmm," she sniffed, then looked thoughtful for a moment.  I thought she was going to suggest a new diet to try.  She was always researching new weight loss fads and flinging information I didn't want at my feet.  Then getting offended when I didn't try it.  Or failing if I did.  "Then we can just go to the cafe," she finally relented.  "Dress in the best thing you brought, I guess."

"Okay." The magic was gone from the moment.  I pulled away from her petting and looked at my plate.  "I'm not that hungry," I lied.  I didn't want to be alone with her any more.  Andy was right.  She was plotting something.   She had given in too easily on the clothes issue.  She normally would have forced us to go shopping.

"Oh, I know you are hungry for my pancakes," she laughed, the musical note re-entering her voice.  "Of course you are."

And as hard as I tried to prove her wrong, she was right.  I scarfed them down, half out of hunger, and half out of a wild desire to fill the empty hole of dread that opened in the pit of my stomach.