Chapter 3
AURORA
There were three missed delivery notes tagged on my door when I made it home.
Instead of going to the mailbox at the end of the hall to retrieve any of them, I simply pulled the notices off the door, crumpling them in my hands to toss into the trash.
They could rot in the mail room for all I cared.
There was no need to check who they were from.
My alleged fiancé.
I wished like hell that I could tie the way Monty loved showering me with gifts to some need of his to make up for something, generosity as a cover for infidelity.
Nope.
The generosity wasn’t new. He’d been that way even when he didn’t really have anything to give. It was one of the qualities that made me fall in love with him in the first place.
I couldn’t say money had changed him.
Even his apparent inability to be faithful… it wasn’t like some switch flipped when he got an NFL contract, or even for years after.
Could I just be na?ve?
Of course.
But right before I found out he was cheating the first time… I knew. I knew something had changed, knew something was off.
I just didn’t know what until my face was splashed across gossip blogs because the woman he was sleeping with decided the world needed to know.
Inside my condo, I fished my phone from my purse, intending to let Sierra know I’d made it safely home. Before I could do that, I was distracted by a deluge of social media notifications waiting for me.
Against my better judgment, I went looking to see what people were saying.
Of course that’s the picture they chose.
Despite me being seated directly beside Sierra, she wasn’t even in the shot. It was perfectly cropped so that it was just me and Tatum Wilder—him in full blown admiration mode, me with a big ass grin on my face that I knew was just a nervous response.
Still… I couldn’t help absorbing how happy I looked.
And how handsome Tatum was.
There at the game, I’d been trying not to look at him too hard. Now, I could look all I wanted.
No wonder I’d been so flustered.
The man was fine.
A fact that undoubtedly contributed the narrative being painted by this particular headline, and likely countless others -- GOLDDIGGER ALERT: EMBATTLED FIANCE OF FOOTBALL SUPERSTAR LUXURIATING IN ATTENTION FROM THE COMPETITION.
I knew this was going to happen.
I closed the app, not daring to look any further. There had already been entirely too much controversy for one day, today of all fuckin’ days, and I didn’t have it in me to accept another shred of negativity.
When I made it into my text thread with Sierra, it was clear she’d already seen the bullshit, and knew how it would hit me.
You look hot as fuck in that picture – S. Ward
Despite myself, I smiled at the compliment that wasn’t just coming from her. I had a half dozen texts from other friends too, including Shan, all on the same buoying “I see you were at the game being pretty” type of energy.
And then, there were the texts from Monty.
You looked good as fuck tonight. – Money Monty
Can’t even blame that nigga lol. – Money Monty
You not gon’ answer the phone? – Money Monty
I rolled my eyes and put him back in snooze mode.
Fuck off.
I tossed the phone down and moved to my vanity, hands already poised to remove my jewelry and start my process of getting unready.
But the mirror held my attention.
Actually, I did look hot as fuck.
Entirely too damned good to be in some major hurry to wash it all away and hang it back up in the closet.
I glanced at the Moment and Measures watch on my wrist—yet another expensive gift from Monty—to check the time before I sighed, realizing what I had just done. There was no way it was healthy for me to think of everything I owned in that manner, tallying every little thing in my life provided by him as some proof of… what?
Proof of what, Rori?
Obviously not fidelity, which I still couldn’t convince myself didn’t matter in the grand scheme of everything else.
And I was disgusted with myself for trying, for going against what I wanted, what Monty had promised by putting that ring on my finger.
I knew better.
But I couldn’t seem to just… let it go.
I was stuck there, constantly reminding myself of every little concession I’d made over the years, every gift, every excuse I’d accepted instead of really confronting behavior that honestly?
Fucking hurt.
No matter how much I tried to pretend otherwise.
So much time wasted gaslighting myself on one thing or another.
Shit.
I shook my head.
This was not a mental road I cared to travel right now. The anxiety of thinking about this shit with Monty, plus the new gossip storyline I’d accidentally created for myself had me wired and restless, so sleep wasn’t about to be an option.
I should do something for myself today.
Not just today, actually.
Period.
But especially today.
Instead of overthinking it, I grabbed my phone and headed straight back to my front door and grabbed my purse and keys.
I was taking myself to my favorite restaurant.
Or so I thought.
Turns out, I wasn’t stepping a toe in Sucre Noir without a long-ass wait, not even a seat at the bar. I could order takeout, but that defeated the purpose of coming back outside, and was probably gonna be a long wait too.
Shit.
I stood outside on the sidewalk for a bit, just taking in the energy of the city while I considered my options. I could just go home, but now that I’d taken the time to make this drive, I didn’t want to do that.
As I looked around, the subtle glow of a sign in the distance caught my eye.
Instantly, I perked up.
I couldn’t do Sucre Noir, but Rendezvous, the rooftop restaurant at Hotel Veil was high on my list of favorites, and not at all a bad second choice.
And it was known for privacy.
A potential winner all around.
I practically floated down the block to the hotel, checking the wait time on their website on the way. I was able to go ahead and reserve a table, which made getting into the hotel even easier.
Today was looking up, finally.
I could already taste the crab cakes as I stepped off the elevator. There was no crowd of people sitting around waiting for a table, which meant no worries about sneaking pictures or anything dumb like that. I was likely to see some familiar faces, sure, but they weren’t trying to do anything but enjoy their meal, privately.
You were damn near signing an NDA to get in anyway. There was a notice posted at the door warning against all manner of… not minding your own business, basically.
With a smile on my face, I followed the host to my table, outside on the heated balcony, with a view of the city. I was practically skipping behind her, so excited for the prime table that I misjudged the distance between my purse and my phone as I went to tuck it away after telling Sierra where I’d ended up.
It slid straight to the floor.
Where I accidentally kicked it, sending it sliding across the room.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered, embarrassed.
The action had caused my screen to light up, so I was at least able to easily see where it had gone.
“I’ll get that for you,” the host offered, but I was already in motion.
“I’ve got it,” I insisted, heading to the table where it had landed.
“Sorry for the interruption!” I said to the table occupants, intending to grab the phone and get out of their space as quickly as possible.
But… my phone was already in hand.
… a familiar hand.
That made my heart…
Clench?
Stop?
Race?
I couldn’t even tell.
I was just… stuck.
Looking at Monty handing me my phone.
Looking at the smug grin of the woman seated across from him.
“Ri, I’ve been trying to call you,” he said, I think.
It sounded distorted, like he was speaking to me through a bottle.
Or maybe I just wanted to crack him upside the head with the very expensive bottle of champagne perched on the table.
“I was trying to let you know I flew back.”
Instead… I did nothing.
“You haven’t been answering your phone, so I figured you had other plans.”
I didn’t react.
“Did you get the deliveries? I sent you a few things.”
Didn’t respond.
“Ri? Are you going to say anything?”
I blinked, hard, nostrils flared. My mouth opened, and my gaze landed on… Yams.
Her phone was out.
Pointed at me.
I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my skin, closed my mouth, pressing my lips together to keep myself from looking like even more of a fucking fool.
I didn’t even meet his gaze.
I didn’t make a peep.
I just took my phone from his hand, turned around and walked out, ignoring him calling my name, because I didn’t know what else to do.
What else was there to do at this point, when I never did anything any of the other times.
The private times.
How was this any different?
Any worse?
It wasn’t.
This writing was already carved into the damn wall.
So why did I feel like my heart was trying to claw out of my chest?
Ignoring the activity behind me—the hostess asking if I was okay, security stepping in to keep Monty from following me, the reflexive prying eyes of the other diners. I just kept walking until I got on the elevator, but then halfway down I opted for the stairs, needing the motion to…
I don’t know.
I don’t know what I expected.
But Rendezvous was on the roof, and by the time I made it back down all those damn steps…
I’d gained nothing.
I wasn’t any more in control of the rage, the hurt, the sadness I was feeling. In fact, the tears I’d been holding in all day were dangerously close to the surface now. I shoved my way through the door into the lobby, looking undoubtedly like a madwoman based on the looks I got as I headed for the valet.
I didn’t care.
My focus was singular.
So much that I didn’t even care when I registered the blur of someone else already heading for the valet stand. I cut him off.
“If you wanna fight, just say that,” I heard him drawl behind me as I dug around to get my valet ticket out of my bag.
“What?” I asked, not even looking up.
“I mean, I don’t put my hands on women, not in that way, but I could probably get my sister Tam up here. She likes to fight. You could probably give her a run for her money though.”
Frowning, I turned around, mouth already moving. “What the fuck are you… talking about. Oh hell.”
That same riveting grin from earlier was spread over Tatum Wilder’s face when I turned around, but it quickly melted off. Whatever was on my face shifted his expression to concern. “Hey, you good?”
“Does it seem like it?” I asked, tossing my hands up as I realized the valet ticket was not in my purse.
Because I wasn’t parked here.
I was parked a block away, and hadn’t used the valet at all.
“Not at all,” he answered, honestly. “You want to talk about it?”
I looked up, narrowing my eyes. “You’re a stranger who has people talking shit about me on the internet, even more than they already were. Why would I want to talk to you?”
He shrugged. “Because I’m a stranger. I’ll only have heard your side, so you’ll automatically be right.”
Hm.
“Come on,” he said, already hooking an arm through mine. “You need a fruity drink or something. That’s the type of shit y’all be liking, right?”
“Who is y’all?”
“Bad bitches.”
“You’re insane,” was my response, but… I didn’t fight it.
Why?
I couldn’t answer that.
Maybe I was just too emotionally overwhelmed for my brain to fire properly.
But instead of walking my ass back to my car and going home, I let this man, this stranger whose name I happened to know, pull me to a little booth in the hotel bar.
The insanity of it kept the tears at bay.
Which kept me in the seat, despite how awkward it was to have him sitting across from me, looking at me like he was figuring me out, then telling the server I wanted a double lemon drop and a water before ordering for himself.
“How did you know I wanted a lemon drop?” I asked as soon as they’d walked away to put in the order.
He grinned. “Well… it’s the only fruity drink I know besides a margarita, and I promised you a fruity drink, so… fingers crossed?”
“Actually…” I wrinkled my nose. “Sucks for you, cause I despise lemon drops, so…”
The smile sliding off his face actually made me feel a little bad. My biggest fucking problem, too worried about making a man feel bad, so I was quick to clean it up. “I’m kidding. A basic ass lemon drop does it for me every time,” I sighed, relaxing into the luxe leather of the booth.
He shrugged. “Nothing wrong with that. You seem bothered by it though. Why?”
“Because it’s predictable. Boring. It’s been my favorite drink since college,” I explained. “Which was what, thirteen, fourteen damn years ago?”
“I’m still not hearing the problem.”
I sucked my teeth. “People are supposed to grow and evolve. Adapt. Choose better. We’re supposed to move on from things, and… elevate. Not still be drinking stagnant-ass lemon drops.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but the server was back, so he waited until the drinks were dropped off, and we were alone again.
“Why do I feel like this actually has nothing to do with lemon drops?”
I raised an eyebrow at him and picked up my glass, draining it in one long, dramatic swallow.
“’Cause it’s not about the damn lemon drops.”
He’d been sipping from his own drink, bourbon and cola, while I answered. Now he nodded, putting the glass down. “Okay. So what is it about then?”
“You don’t have to pretend you haven’t heard anything about me.”
“Oh good then, so we can talk about you being… how did the screen phrase it? A tech mogul?” He grinned. “I looked into your app; that shit is cool.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”
He groaned, feigning annoyance before he leaned across the table a bit, holding my gaze. “Fine. We can talk about the loser.”
“The loser?”
“That’s what I’m calling him out of respect for the fact that you have his ring on your finger.”
“So you’re familiar with Monty?”
“I’m familiar with the look in your eyes.”
“You shouldn’t be decoding anything in my eyes.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a stranger.”
“Am I?” he countered, finally sitting back, arms stretched across the back of the booth.
It was impossible not to notice the musculature of his flesh straining the fabric of the sweater stretched across his broad chest and shoulders.
Quite nicely.
There was actually a lot that was quite nice visually about Tatum Wilder, starting with the size of him.
He was imposingly large, and stretched out like he was, he took up the whole side of the booth. Exactly like what you thought when you heard someone was a football player. Chestnut brown skin, thick facial hair, full lips, wide nose, and those eyes that had been so startlingly intense at courtside were just as expressive now.
I wasn’t startled though, not anymore.
I was intrigued.
Inappropriately.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him, needing to shift myself into a different headspace. “Booty call in the city before you head back to Connecticut for practice or something?”
Fair.
Maybe not.
But I was trying to remind myself that save a few exceptions, professional athletes—especially the football players, especially ones that looked like him—were whores.
“What?” he chuckled, shaking his head. “No, I just like the privacy of the hotel. Are you here for a booty call?” he countered.
“I’m not,” I said. “My fiancé is though.”
Tatum’s eyebrows shot up. “Like right now?”
“Yeah.”
“In this hotel?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I came to have a nice dinner to myself, and… lo and behold, there he is. There they are. And now here we are,” I exclaimed with a little flourish of my arms that very likely made me look crazy.
Definitely based on the look on his face.
“That’s…very fucked up, Aurora.”
“Rori, please,” I corrected him.
“Fine,” he said. “That’s fucked up, Rori.”
“I agree. It is.”
“You want me to kick his ass?”
I laughed. “You don’t even know me, but you’d kick his ass for me?”
He shrugged. “I’ve beat niggas up over much less.”
“Doesn’t the league have rules about stuff like that?”
“I can count five motherfuckers off the top of my head that were in the news for beating up women, and their asses are still on rosters.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“It is. I beat one of them up.”
My mouth dropped. “Even more reason to keep your ass out of the news!”
“It never made the news, didn’t happen on the field.”
“Even so,” I countered. “Your reaction to me at the game made quite a splash already, so I’m sure you got a call from your PR team.”
He chuckled. “That shit wouldn’t even register. You remember I told you my sister likes to fight?”
“…Vaguely?”
“Well, she’s not the only one. It’s kind of a family trait.”
“Violence?”
“Helping people reap what they sowed,” he said.
“Uh-huh, so you’re known for fighting?” I asked. “If I google you, that’s what will come up?”
The smile that spread over his face said I was spot on, but he shook his head.
“I wouldn’t say I’m known for it, but… hell, I’m an offensive tackle.”
My eyes went wide. “Oh. The most violent position on the field…”
“Damn.”
“Is it not?!”
“It is, but still… damn.”
“Do they deserve it too?” I asked. “Those poor guys getting hit by… a refrigerator?”
“I’m the refrigerator?” he asked, damn near blushing about it, and I laughed.
“Yes, and I’m positive you’ve heard that before.”
“It’s my first time hearing you say it though,” he said. “And actually, yeah, they deserve that shit. It’s what they get for being on the opposing team. Their fault.”
“Wow,” I giggled. “I… suppose I see the logic.”
“Good. Now see the logic in me beating up Monty’s bitch ass. You want me to do it in front of the side piece?”
“Absolutely not,” I insisted, waving off the idea. “That situation is… I don’t know. Not worth the energy anymore.”
A conclusion I’d come to before, honestly.
But at the time, at those times, it’d felt different.
Back then, it was a very screaming, crying, throwing up kind of energy.
Now I just felt so exhausted.
And angry.
Having her out and about in my city, on today of all days…
It was too much.
Physically, mentally, emotionally, I was depleted.
“So you’re done with it?” Tatum asked, like he knew exactly what was happening in my head.
I sighed.
Shrugged.
“I wish I could say I was and actually believe myself.”
“Damn.” Tatum blew out a long breath. “Love is a motherfucker.”
“A cruel one.”
“Nah,” he corrected, shaking his head. “Love is… consuming, and motivating, and amplifying, and debilitating, all these things it has the possibility to be, but it’s… neutral. Not kind or cruel. That depends on how it’s wielded.”
Eyebrows raised, I nodded. “That take feels quite… experienced, I think is the word I want to use. So the woman who taught you that… how recently did you stomp her heart into the ground?”
“It wasn’t recent at all, for your information,” he huffed, crossing his arms.
“But it happened?”
He inclined his head, conceding. “I can admit I’ve absolutely done my share of fucking up a good thing,” he said. “Young, dumb, arrogant, selfish… all the usual excuses people use. I’ve seen firsthand what hurting somebody who loves you over and over does to them.”
“Somebody who loves you,” I repeated. “Not somebody you love?”
“I’m of the opinion that if you really loved that person, you wouldn’t keep hurting them. You disagree?”
“I think it’s more complicated than that. It’s not that black and white.”
Tatum met my gaze, with zero pity—that would’ve killed me—but all the kindness in the world in his eyes when he countered, “I think you want to believe that because you know you deserve better.”
My eyes widened a bit, processing his words before I looked away, staring at my empty glass. There those tears were, back again uninvited.
I cleared my throat, shaking away the feeling. “I think… I’m going to have another drink. Or three.”
He chuckled. “I think… I’m going to have your keys, ’cause there’s no way you should drive if you’re going to do that.”
“Jokes on you, I’m not actually parked here,” I quipped. “I’m like a block away, and it’s late, and the very last thing I want to do is make that lonely ass drive out to the boonies anyway. I’m going to just get a room for the night, instead of driving back home to...”
I didn’t finish.
Didn’t want to say it out loud.
He looked at me expectantly, waiting on me to complete the statement, but I couldn’t make myself do it. I was pathetic enough without admitting I didn’t want to be alone. I was always freaking alone.
Of course I had my girls to hang with, but when the link up was over, they were going home to partners, kids, making hook-up arrangements if they wanted.
I was going to an empty bed.
It came with the territory of being in a relationship with a professional athlete who was traveling all the time, sure.
But it didn’t help that with the time he did get… I clearly wasn’t his priority.
“Getting a room is probably a good idea,” Tatum said, when he realized I wasn’t going to be forthcoming with my broken statement.
I ran my fingers along the rim of the glass, trying to calm my trembling hands as I looked up.
Looked him in the face.
And made a snap decision.
“I think you should join me,” I said, forcing the words out before I could think myself around it. “In the room I’m going to get.”
He sat back, eyes wide. “Oh.”
“Oh?” I asked, face instantly going hot. “That’s all the response I get after inviting you to my room?”
“I just…” He sat forward, meeting my gaze. “I didn’t realize we were on that type of time.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? You’re telling me sex wasn’t the end game for… this?” I asked, gesturing between us.
“Rori… you were on the verge of tears when we ran into each other. Sex was not even a little bit on my mind.”
“Wow. Uh… okay.” I nodded, hoping I didn’t look as flustered as I felt. “This is embarrassing, even for a woman whose fiancé very publicly has a girlfriend. So… um… I’m just gonna?—”
I was already sliding out of the booth when he stopped me, reaching across the table to grab my hand.
“Wait, hold up. Why is it embarrassing?” he asked, and I let out a huff.
Brow furrowed, I asked, “You’re kidding, right? There’s a whole list of reasons it’s embarrassing to not only assume someone wants to fuck you, but to find out they actually don’t because they declined your offer to do exactly that, while being engaged to someone else.”
Tatum chuckled. “Baby, you’ve gotta slow down. I didn’t deny either of those things.”
“What things?”
“Wanting to fuck you, or the opportunity to fuck you.”
I squinted. “But you said?—”
“That it wasn’t my end game,” he finished for me. “I saw you at the game, reacted to you being fine as shit, and that was it. I saw you rush up to the valet stand, I decided to make a comment, thinking that would be it. I saw you were upset, seemed like you could use a conversation, and I was heading somewhere I’m banned from anyway, so… lending an ear seemed like a better use of my time. And that was all I planned to do.”
“But… the plans have changed?”
“I’d say they have.”
He was so relaxed.
His grip on my wrist had lightened, to the point that he was really just touching, not holding. There was zero tension in his shoulders, his tone.
Meanwhile, my stomach was in knots.
So I resorted to more questions.
“If you wanted to sleep with me… why weren’t you trying?” I asked, sinking back into my seat.
“Aside from the fact that you made sure I knew you were wearing an engagement ring?” he chuckled, reminding me of my behavior at the game. “There’s your point about us being strangers to take into account as well, but most importantly… I’m not ruled by my dick. Anymore,” he added, still chuckling.
“Those reasons aren’t valid anymore?”
“They are. I just… how do I say this… ah! A therapist once told me that I have a ‘reckless sense of justice’. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“No.”
He nodded. “Okay. Why are you inviting me to your room for sex? Why is that an option for you, with an engagement ring on your finger?”
I looked down at the jewelry in question, shrugged. “Because my fiancé has made it abundantly clear that the ring doesn’t mean anything. I think at some point, I have to listen.”
“So you want to get your lick back?”
My mouth opened. “No, it’s not like that. It’s not revenge. I just… I don’t want to be alone.”
“We could sit right here and keep talking and you wouldn’t be alone. Is that what you want to do?”
A no left my lips with zero hesitation, and Tatum grinned.
“So you want to get your lick back, then?”
I thought about it a moment, then nodded.
Cause… yes, actually.
For once, I wanted to do what Monty did all the time.
Whatever the fuck he wanted.
He grinned. “Exactly. I’m going to go make us some arrangements.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
He was already out of the booth, stopping the server to presumably start the process of getting us a room.
Just like that.