Fourth and Inches Page 18

  Rob disentangles our connection only to scrub his hands over his face. “I don’t want that kind of life for you ever again.”

  “I don’t want to go back to that, either,” I admit. “It’s just not…me.”

  “Well, that’s still progress, I guess.” His smile is lopsided, not nearly full enough to reveal the dimple which would make me cave to any counter offer he might make. “I’m working on getting you more freedom, I promise. Can you give me another week or so until you book your flight?”

  Wait. That’s it? I expected way more resistance. “What do you mean, you’re working on it?”

  He opens his laptop again, gesturing for me to scoot closer to see what’s on the screen. “The team provides security coverage to any player who wants it. It’s not like a personal bodyguard who will do whatever we want. More like former cops who know exactly the kind of trouble NFL players tend to get into, and will keep us out of it. That’s all subsidized by the team, but completely optional. It doesn’t cover spouses or kids, though. I’ve been researching private security firms, getting recommendations, and feeling out a few potential candidates.”

  I skim over the page, which explains this particular company’s services. The firm is dedicated to providing security specifically for pro athletes, apparently.

  Armed protection for your loved ones, never deal with angry fans again, keep your children’s photos out of the media, complete discretion and distraction techniques so you can live your life the way you want.

  While that sounds great, it also sounds…suspicious. “Discretion and distraction? Like, from paparazzi?”

  “Not exactly,” Rob draws out, sounding distinctly uncomfortable. “I hate to admit this, but I got the idea for a private security firm from one of my linemen. Apparently, he hired a bodyguard for his wife to keep her in the dark about his affairs. She moved out, threatened to divorce him, and bleed him dry for child support when she first found out he was fooling around on her. Another player told him about a few companies who help with that sort of thing. When she realized he hired personal security for her and the kids, she thought he was doing it out of love, and moved back into their house. He was bragging in the locker room about how she’s been clueless ever since, and how he doesn’t have to worry about his money anymore.”

  I lean back against the headboard. Rob’s expression looks as disenchanted as I feel.

  “That’s…awful.”

  He nods, still staring at the laptop with glazed eyes. “Yeah. You don’t know the half of it.”

  Only…I do. I am intimately acquainted with that horrible, horrible side of sports.

  Knowing what I know should be enough to make me walk away. For both our sakes.

  But, it’s not. Maybe that makes me selfish, or just stupid.

  “I don’t understand why a bodyguard whose sole purpose is distraction would even need to be armed.”

  Rob grimaces, then clicks on another tab. “That’s why it’s taking me so long to make a decision. I’ve fielded a few interviews, but none of these guys are good enough. I’m not going to hire someone who isn’t trained in how to use a firearm appropriately; that isn’t safe for anyone. We don’t need an ex-NFL player to look big and threatening if the media or fans get near you. We need someone who’s maybe ex-military, covert ops, or something similar who will not only be willing, but have the skill set to put himself between you and very real danger.”

  “Rob…” I don’t want to have another disagreement about my mental stability, but he’s taking this too far. “Not only is something like that going to cost a fortune, but I always thought the NFL has its own security. Some of those guys are ex-FBI and CIA. They’re good enough. I don’t need this.”

  His eyes keep moving across the screen of his laptop as he reads, mumbling a response. “The NFL cares about making the NFL look good. They don’t give a damn about keeping you alive. We have a handler on the Rushers’ staff, sure, but he’s so busy putting out fires that could turn into bad PR blazes, he doesn’t have time for anything extra. That’s exactly why all those professional athlete security firms started popping up. The main security guys need to farm out to keep up with the overwhelming load.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure our situation counts as anything extra. You have to be on your handler’s radar after your behavior last year. If he wants to make you look good, isn’t part of that alleviating any stress you might be under?”

  Stress because of me.

  “I was never on his radar because I wasn’t committing any potential crimes, like driving under the influence or soliciting call girls. The only reason James was so far up my ass was because everyone knew I wouldn’t do anything too drastic out in the open. They were more worried about what I’d do behind closed doors.”

  His casually delivered admission slaps me in the face.

  I study the bedroom that no longer bears any marks of Rob’s temper.

  Hypocrisy knocks on the door of my heart, knowing one of the tasks I assigned to Rob is letting go of guilt.

  As if he senses I’m struggling, Rob gives me his full attention. “I wouldn’t have done what you’re imagining, baby. Even at my lowest point, I couldn’t saddle you with that kind of burden.”

  Relief chokes me even as images of Rob drinking himself to death flash through my mind. Only after a few swallows can I speak. “The potential suicide of their top draft pick, whether intentionally or not, should be a big deal to Rushers’ security. Tell me again why you’re not on their radar?”

  “Because I asked.” Rob frowns, then goes back to his internet research. “I flat-out went to Hirschel, explained to him what was going on, and asked if he could help. He pretty much told me we’re on our own. They don’t see it as a threat.”

  “Who’s Hirschel?”

  “Our security guy. Former FBI. He has connections and knows how to keep shit on the downlow.”

  “If he has connections, obviously already knows the situation, and doesn’t see it as a threat, then why do you?”

  Rob refusing to believe my insanity is almost as frustrating as him not believing me about Eddie in the past.

  Irony is such a major player in my life.

  Rob sighs, closes his laptop before placing it on his nightstand, then shuts off the lamp. He adjusts himself on the pillows before pulling me down into his arms. “I didn’t believe you in college when you insisted our problems in bed weren’t because of the assault. I will never make that mistake again. Maybe if I had listened to you then, we wouldn’t have gone through all the shit we’ve been through.”

  Images of Julie and Rob together replace the mental pictures of Rob killing himself because of me.

  “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

  It’s amazing how commonly used phrases aren’t nearly enough to convey their intended meaning.

  I’m sorry.

  Thank you.

  Please.

  I love you.

  The most salient emotions of the human condition can only be felt deeply, never expressed adequately.

  “I’m sorry.” Rob squeezes me tighter. “I should have listened to you. Instead, I let my own insecurities and hang-ups dictate my actions. I’m not going to repeat the mistakes of the past, baby. It took a lot for me to admit I can’t protect you the way I want to, need to.”

  The deep sigh he breathes suffuses into my own body. “I love you enough to admit my shortcomings. If I want to make you proud of me by getting back to being the best quarterback you’ve ever seen, then I can’t be with you twenty-four hours a day. Even if I could, it wouldn’t matter. I’m just a dumb jock. I don’t have the first fucking clue how to keep you safe from a stalker.”

  I cut off his spiral into anxiety with a firm kiss to his lips. “You are not dumb. You’re one of the most brilliant men I’ve ever known.”

  His self-awareness, willing to learn from his mistakes and grow from them is only proof of that.

  Hell, in that regard, he’s far more intelligent
than I am.

  With our mouths still pressed together, I feel him grimace before his moving lips tickle my own. “Still, I’d rather be safe than sorry. I know you’re itching for freedom, and I don’t want to keep you under lock and key. You’re not my dirty secret, Mrs. Falls. You’re my everything.”

  Such heartfelt words for such an undeserving recipient.

  “As much as I appreciate all your efforts, you have to be realistic. Your head security guy is telling you there’s no threat. The police never found any evidence of Jackson being in New York. The DA hasn’t said a word about him violating his parole. Mike will be the first to tell you I’m not worth this kind of protection.”

  “Have you talked to him yet?”

  More guilt claws at my throat. “No.”

  What would I say to my oldest friend?

  Once again, mere words could never do my remorse justice.

  “Well, I have.” Rob presses a kiss to my forehead. “He’s called me several times to check on you.”

  “Why hasn’t he called me?” Apparently, I’ve exchanged men who aren’t speaking to me. First Rob, now Mike.

  “He doesn’t want to make you feel guiltier by approaching you until you’re ready. He doesn’t blame you, Evie. He doesn’t hate you.”

  Well, he should.

  For so many things.

  “Now, back to our deal.” Rob settles us more comfortably against the pillows. “I have two weeks until training camp to make this happen. I’ll honestly feel better about you being home with your family than alone here while I’m gone. I’ll feel even better when I get your personal security set up. While I take care of that, I want you to find a specialist here and set up an appointment. It might take a while for you to find a therapist you’re comfortable with, but you can at least get the ball rolling by picking out two or three to call when you get back from your trip. I don’t want you to put it off any longer.”

  “You did it backwards. You didn’t tell me a fear first,” I mumble into his chest.

  “I’m fucking terrified once you leave, you’ll never come back. But, I’m hoping if you make these appointments before you go, you’ll have a reason to return.”

  “You’re not reason enough?”

  “Not yet, I’m not. I’m still working on my end of our deal.”

  Admitting all his fears and failures must be enough weight off his chest for him to fall asleep quickly.

  As that load transfers onto me, sleep never comes. By dawn’s early light, several new problems bore into my brain.

  Our conversation about security brought up something I hadn’t considered when suffering from cabin fever. If I’m seen out and about in Sacramento with Rob, it’s only a matter of time until the media realizes we’re back together.

  I’m not ready for the onslaught of questions Mackey only touched on when he asked where I’d been. I have no idea how to portray myself as part of Rob’s life when not only will I never go back to being a football wife, but I’m now actually…his wife.

  Which brings about the issue of how I’m going to explain my new residence to my family. As far as anyone knows, Rob and I broke up amicably and went our separate ways after college. It would crush them to know I’ve been lying by omission all this time. Not to mention, weddings are a very big deal in my family. They’ll be as hurt at being deprived of a big celebration as I am.

  I’m not sure if it’s a good idea for me to come clean about everything.

  With seven months to go, either Rob or I can still tap out on this deal.

  Even after time is up, he may decide I’m not worth it after all.

  He says he loves me enough to admit his shortcomings. I’ve known mine all along. Those very real flaws are what made me walk away the first time, in the hopes of giving him a better life with a partner who can lift him up rather than bring him down.

  Rob wants me to be proud of him. As much as I want him to be proud of me, I have no idea how to make that happen.

  He still doesn’t know all my secrets.

  Of course, Shawn set up the shoot while Evie’s away.

  Of course, the bastard did.

  What I don’t know for sure is whether my wife and my agent colluded together for me to be alone in this clusterfuck or not.

  “Just a few more swipes, then you’ll be done,” the makeup artist assures me.

  Sure, she’s been professional, but the way she’s obsessing over my bare skin gives me the fucking creeps.

  First, it was an all over oil rub down. I don’t think I’ve ever even waxed The Lady so thoroughly. When she got a little too close to the baby makers, I nearly blacked out.

  Next, the photographer wanted to create the illusion of sweat and dirt.

  Which means misting with more oil and then…dusting.

  I’m literally being dusted with some kind of dark powder.

  So weird.

  Wouldn’t it just be easier, not to mention more authentic, to send me out into the lush landscaping outside the building to roll around in the flower beds? Sweating isn’t really all that hard to pull off with the insane lighting in the studio.

  “I love the tattoo on your chest,” the woman says conversationally. As if this whole process isn’t as disturbing for her as it is for me. “What does it say?”

  I glance down, trying to figure out if the letters have somehow changed shape with all the makeup.

  Nope.

  Still looks the same to me.

  “Evie.”

  She peeks her head around from where she’s dusting my ass to gaze at my chest with narrowed eyes. “It’s a name? Really?”

  What the fuck? “Yeah.”

  “Is it in a different language? What script is that?”

  Oh my God.

  It never occurred to me most people can’t read some of the letters. All this time, and no one has realized what this tattoo means.

  “It’s Greek.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up, seemingly impressed. “I didn’t realize you were Greek.”

  “I’m not. Evie is.”

  She goes back to her work on my rear, clucking like a hen. “My friends will be so disappointed. We all thought it was something much cooler. Like a deeper meaning sort of thing.”

  She was talking about me with her friends? Is it standard procedure to research the bodies of the people you’ll be making over before the shoot happens? Were they discussing ideas for improvement? The latest makeup techniques for recreating dirt?

  “It has a deeper meaning to me.” I swallow down the familiar taste of failure on my tongue. “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t have had it permanently inked into my skin.”

  She laughs like that’s the most stupid reason for getting a tattoo she’s ever heard. “I guess that explains the Miners tat, then. You played for them in college, right?”

  Maybe if I had chosen to get that one, it would have meaning for me. Instead, that particular brand will always remind me of forced servitude and abuse.

  One tattoo represents love, acceptance. The other is a constant reminder there are some truly disturbed people in this world.

  I guess, in some ways, most of us wear scars left behind by others. Some are visible. Others are hidden.

  This Miners tattoo matters, even if I didn’t put it on my body by choice.

  And yet, I don’t want to assign it any meaning at all.

  Only Evie has that kind of power, importance to me.

  Her name over my heart matters.

  This is my bite mark.

  By choice.

  The photographer’s assistant peeks her head in the door, eyeing me up and down in a way that makes me clutch the towel closer to my junk. “Five minutes. Are you almost done with him?”

  The makeup artist chuckles as she tickles the brush along the backs of my thighs. “If you’re giving me five minutes, then I’m going to take all of them. You can’t rush perfection.”

  “Amen to that,” the ogling woman mumbles under her breath, then clears her thro
at, returning her gaze to my face. “This should be the last set, then you’ll be free to clean up and go. Unless you’d like to stick around and view the proofs with me?”

  Hell. No.

  “I’m married,” I blurt.

  The object of my panic doesn’t look convinced. “You aren’t wearing a wedding band. I’ve never seen you photographed with even a girlfriend since your NFL debut. Who’s the lucky woman?”

  I point to Evie’s name on my chest. “Her.”

  The assistant stalks toward me, studying the tattoo the same way her coworker did moments ago. “That’s a name? I always thought it was like those cool Chinese characters that represent a proverb.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  “Will you turn that damn thing off and go to sleep already?”

  In all fairness to Davis, it’s almost midnight, tomorrow is our last day of training camp, and after two weeks of grueling practice in the summer heat, everyone on the team is exhausted and cranky.

  I’m irritated, too, but not for the same reasons as my teammates.

  Three weeks.

  No Evie.

  I haven’t even heard her voice.

  In the interests of keeping her family out of our personal drama, she only checks in with me a few times a day via text. She’s worried about them eavesdropping on any actual in-person conversations.

  Now, who feels like a dirty little secret?

  Me.

  I do.

  And damn, this shoe is tight and ill-fitting on the other foot.

  I’ve had more contact with her personal bodyguard in all this time.

  His qualifications are ideal. I don’t question his capability to keep her safe, to spot a threat before she even knows it’s there.

  But, those facts are not enough to keep me from likely annoying the shit out of him by checking up on her every chance I get.

  Now just happens to be one of those times.

  Falls: Everything still good?

  Byers: All clear on the home front. Papageorgiou residence is secured. No signs of Mr. Sinclair today. Although, she did run into someone she referred to as an ex-boyfriend. He seemed nervous and twitchy. Thought I might have to intervene. Turns out his wif was waiting for him in the car and he was in a hurry. Now, for the love of God, it’s 3am. Go the fuck to sleep. You pay me to keep her safe. I’ll do my job. Or die trying.