Roman: Book 1 (16 page)

Time seems to stand still as I watch him hover over her delicate frame lying in the hospital bed while brushing her hair behind her ears with his fingers and softly kissing her forehead.

I’m on the verge of making my presence known when his back slides down the wall to sit on the floor on the other side of the room. With the bedside table blocking him from sight, I quietly slip through the door, barely pulling it closed.

With every step I take further away from Mac the more my hands tremble from the rage pumping through my veins.

I don’t know when, nor do I know how, but I will kill Roman for every wrong he has ever done to Mac.

I’m uncertain when Roman left. After I used the last of my emotional reserves to force the words lodged in my throat, I was unable to look him in the face and in the end fell asleep facing away from where he stood. Or rather, slid down and slumped against a wall.

The nurse covering today’s shift comes in murmuring something in French that I for the life of me will never be able to translate to you, as she sets the food tray down and a white envelope she smiles.

I barely muster a nod as depression breeds with exhaustion before she thankfully leaves me alone in the room. After I open the sugar and creamer packets and dump them into my coffee, I begin taking slow sips as thoughts of every sort batter against my already weakening mind. When my eyes land on the envelope, my interest piques and I sit up setting my coffee to the side before sliding my finger beneath the edge and tearing the lip of the envelope open.

The dim lighting prohibits me from seeing who the letter is from. I push the button on my handrail turning the lights on above my bed. As soon my vision clears, Roman’s beautiful penmanship comes into focus. Although my conscious mind berates me for continuing, I read his words over and over, savoring each one of as they dance in front of my injured eyes:

I reread his words until my vision blurs and I am left unable to make out the words but that doesn’t keep them from causing the damage, because the very first time I read it, every damn one of his words seared across the back of my eyelids.

“Fucking hell, Roman.” The cry slurs between my split and swollen lips.

I yelp so loudly it hurts my throat when his dark, tired voice emerges from the other side of the bedside table, “Fucking hell? Mouse, that is putting my current state of mind so mildly, it mocks the carnage one would witness if they were to peek inside my damned for hell soul.”

All I’m able to see are his fine leather Faragamo’s peeking out from where he sits.

I feel my conscious mind fold over on itself before and slide into a dark locked box, leaving the empty void behind to either take the whatever attack Roman has in store, or worse, listen to any kind words of love surrounded by broken promises he never intended on keeping.  After my breaths and heart rate even out, my eye settles on the thumbtack-eraser board on the wall my bed faces.

My sound mind still hears his words, but doesn’t feel them and won’t remember them.

All that remains is an emptiness created to absorb the brutality of being the fool in love with Roman.  “How—“ The cracking of his voice causes him to clear his throat. “How many… You have to be pretty far along in order for them to accurately confirm the fetus’ gender Heather.”

That is all he says.

His words hang heavy between us and I feel myself shrink back into the recesses of my mind and shove the void I created to endure roman’s torment, forward.

From somewhere unknown, I hear a voice, which mirrors my own, and I know the empty void has been filled by this new wicked malevolent entity rising from the ashes of my separation with reality. And she scares the fucking hell out of me.

The sarcasm is as sweet as saccharin yet lethal as rat poison dripping from my every spoken word, “My love…do I  hear a question somewhere in all that rubble you’re spewing forth over there?”

Roman clears his throat for the second time in the sixty second conversation before confessing in an angry, dark tone, “Heather. I am a fucking Obstetric and Gynecology specialist!” Standing abruptly he towers me and continues, “Fucking tell
me! Weeks, goddamn you! HOW MANY FUCKING WEEKS PREGNANT ARE YOU?!”

Sinister laughter spills from my spilt lips and it matches the horrid, sickening visage I see reflecting back at me in Roman’s eyes.

I hear the new presence cackle before speaking. My voice cracks, but not once does it fucking waver, “Oooooohhhhhh… Dr. Roman Payne, I regret to inform you, I am well past fourteen weeks pregnant, and two: I’ve been repeatedly asked by all three doctors over my care, if I would allow the poliça a moment to prove the fingerprints,” my hand motions a circle around the right side of my face with my pointer finger, “do not match the ones on this side of my face, so they could drop the charges against you,“ I point to the left side, “
for
fucking
doing
THIS
!”

The dark chuckle reverberating through me sends shivers up my own spine before it dies off and my one good eye lands on his looking back and forth between his as the words are spit out, “You are a pathetic excuse for a man. In your arrogance you draft some utter bullshit declaration that I am to be your wife.” I laugh, “ What?  Did you expect your command tosend me into a fan girl hot mess?  Did you think I would hang arduously on every beautiful promise of becoming your…
SERVANT
, to obey and accept all commands until the death do you determine I deserve… says your decree?”

As a sigh is finally released from the long spiel, another chuckle comes out with it, before my voice finishes doling out the devils due, You know Roman, if not for this moment, if not for the monitors watching my room, I would probably never found the courage to tell you I loathe you.”

When our eyes meet I see him staring down at me with a look across his face as if he has never seen the woman before him. The new presence slips into the dark corners of my mind, as her snickering echoes through my thoughts before fading all together. I’m left wide eyed staring at the void of myself I pushed to the forefront to take Roman’s abuse as it stares blankly at the thumbtack-dry erase board.

Without speaking a word Roman calmly turns and leaves.

And he does not return for three days.

I’ve been sitting here over an hour since being discharged, trying to decide what to do next when suddenly the door opens. Roman stalks into the room, grabs my bag from beside the bed. “Let’s go.” His voice snaps.

I stand slowly and head towards the door. Roman positions his hand at the small of my back and urges me quickly through the sterile corridor, past the nurses station and out of the hospital double doors into the bright sunlight.

I have to shield my eyes from the brightness of the sun since I have been in virtual twilight these past days. The limo holds relief from the sun but there is no ignoring the tension and silence during the ride to the airport.

On board private jet I swallow two prescription pain pills, take the pillow and blanket the flight attendant hands me, recline the soft plush chair and roll over facing away from Roman and promptly fall asleep.

I hate France. I hate Roman. Hell, I hate myself.

This baby? Dear God, how I love the baby girl growing inside me somewhere over the Atlantic the reality of my situation dawns on me.  At that moment my baby girl becomes my first priority. I haven’t even laid eyes on her yet and already I love her more than my own life.

I don’t for the life of me know what I’m doing, what I’m going to do, or where my life is headed.

A. Father. I’m going to be a father. I can barely process this thought before words like denial, disbelief, terror, rejection, defiance, and pure devoted love crash into me from every angle in no rational order over and over.

I do nothing but watch Heather sleeping the entire flight. A million different emotions I was not built to feel reign their attack on me.

I can’t be a father. It isn’t in my genetic makeup. I also can’t live without Heather.

I have always been a very intelligent man. Confusion is not something I am accustomed to deal with. I don’t even know how to fight this faceless monster, much less defeat it.

My eyes trace over the profile of her swollen face and pain tears through my chest and questions bombard me.

Why did I hurt her? What was the purpose behind me lashing out at her the night we landed in Cannes? I was the one who allowed her to drink too much, because I wanted to see her without her inhibitions controlling her every move. The same inhibitions I spent the last year creating and then reinforcing.

I didn’t like when she called me Romie. It pissed me off. And when she came back and said it again after I’d warned her I had no other choice.

I couldn’t take back my warning, I also couldn’t not follow up on it either.

Then the incident in the office, all because she was in one of my t-shirts? But why did I allow her wearing my shirt to tip such a violent reaction? As my eyes scan every accessible inch of her I think back on every reaction I allowed to occur, any argument I held onto in France quickly dissipates into a weak and pathetic excuse as we touch down in Seattle.

I know two things for certain in this sea of uncertainty. It’s time I loosen the noose or leash I have around her neck, and if I plan on keeping her and the baby, I need to find some fucking patience.

Two things I am certain of: It is time to loosen the noose I have around Heather’s neck and I need to find some fucking patience if I plan on keeping her and the baby in my life. Regardless of my choice it is time to take legal precautions ensuring their future. I do not yet know if I will be an active part of their lives or a silent witness. Only time will tell.