14. Elizabeth
FOURTEEN
ELIZABETH
MY NEW COUSIN MAKES ME anxious. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. He's managed to shower, dress and smell absolutely amazing in less than fifteen minutes, and he's keeping a close watch on me out of the corner of his eye while he drives. Gosh, the man even drives with swagger. Looking sexy as hell as he leans slightly back in his seat with his left arm guiding the steering wheel and the right stretched across the back of my seat. His hand is so close to the back of my head, I find myself sitting here waiting for him to start running his fingers through my hair.
"Where are we going?" I ask nervously.
"By the art museum,” he says in a serious tone.
I turn my head to look square at him. "That's where I used to live."
"I know. Joseph told me you still have a few boxes in the basement and that you haven't received your security deposit back yet?"
I pick up my iPhone and play aimlessly around with the arrangement of my apps. I'm embarrassed and a little annoyed that my uncle has sent Roman to handle business that is my responsibility without even consulting me. I wonder if my mother told them about everything that happened, because she clearly must have told my aunt and uncle something. Of course, even she doesn't know everything.
"Why do you call your father Joseph?" I ask, changing the subject.
"The same reason why Juliette wants you to call her Juliette. They don't want to feel like they're old enough to be somebody's father or aunt."
"But they clearly are."
"They sure as hell are, but what can you say to the delusional?"
We both laugh at the same time, and my eyes lock with his for a fleeting moment.
"Are you and Joseph close?"
"Not exactly."
"But you work together right?"
"Yes, but it's not like you're thinking."
"What am I thinking?"
"That I wanted to follow in his footsteps, be a part of the family business, or some shit like that."
"Then what is it like?"
"It's more like I didn't have a lot of options, and I took the simplest path."
"Seems like a profitable path, though. This is a very nice car, and I hear you live in some fancy apartment on Chestnut."
We were riding in a freshly washed, black Range Rover SUV with tan leather interior and some sort of navigation system that looked like it was designed by a NASA engineer. And I couldn't help but overhear Juliette bragging to a girlfriend on the phone the other day about how she's so proud of Roman, and how he lives in a great building with a doorman at his age.
"We already had money, Elizabeth," he says flatly.
"Your father did, but Juliette says that you earn your own money. That they don't give you a dime."
"Does money impress you?" I detect a tone from him that suggests that me liking money is a bad thing. Like perhaps I'm some sort of shallow person, when I'm far from that. I'm just impressed by his success. His and Joseph's.
Everything they've seemed to have accomplished. I want to be independent and an entrepreneurial success like they are. I want people to remember who I am, or at least what my contribution to this world was, and I certainly don't want to have to live in my aunt's guest room while I do it.
"There's nothing wrong with money, but that's not what motivates me if that's what you're asking."
"What motivates you?"
"The work that I do."
"What are you working on exactly?"
"I'm designing an app."
"Oh, that's cool," he says with a little disinterest. "A game?"
"No, it's a productivity app that will help match high school seniors and college students to scholarship money." I say with pride in my voice.
He looks mildly impressed. "You're smart."
I shrug my shoulders. "More like inspired. My parents didn't have the money to send me to Penn, or any college for that matter, but they made too much money to qualify for needs-based scholarships. So I had to figure things out on my own. I spent most of my junior year of high school online, in libraries and bookstores researching hundreds of scholarships. It was a nightmare, but it worked. I paid for my entire college education. Room and board. Even food."
"So you want to help others have an easier time finding scholarships?"
"Exactly. The money is out there, it's just the search for it which is brutal."
"That's fucking amazing."
I grin like a goofball. There's something about receiving Roman's seal of approval that makes me feel like doing a hundred cartwheels.
We ride by one of my favorite diners, and I know we're back in my old stomping grounds. I'm getting nervous, and I need to find a way to tell Roman the reason why without telling him everything. I don't like to talk about the attack. I've barely told Sloan or my parents what happened, so I sure as hell don't want to spill my guts to him.
Roman already notices my apprehension. Shit. My hair twisting always gives it away.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't think I'm going to get the security deposit back."
"Why?"
"The place needs painting, there's a hole in the wall of my bedroom, and I didn't really clean when I left."
His eyebrows squish together. "Back up. Why is there a hole in your bedroom wall?"
"A misunderstanding."
"Between?"
"Me and my ex."
Well, that's sort of the truth.
"What's his name?" he asks flatly. "The ex." I turn my head and catch Roman staring at me.
"Keep your eyes on the road please,” I request.
"I got this. I was driving well before you got your period. Just give me the name."
Gosh, he can be so crude sometimes.
"I don't want to tell you."
"Why?"
"Because I get the feeling you might actually do something with the information if I give it to you."
He grins. "That's the idea."
"I handled it."
He growls under his breath.
"Listen, Elizabeth, I know that we don't know each other that well yet, but you're going to learn a couple of things about me very quickly. I'm an expert at handling shit, I don't like to ask things twice, and I don't accept the word no very often or very well."
Something about that very matter-of-fact statement makes my nipples tingle. I imagine he's very hard to say no to, and that I probably couldn't say the word very much at all to him. I probably wouldn't want to.
"I need the name. It's my third time asking," he warns.
"Ethan Anderson,” I say reluctantly.
"See, was that so hard?" he asks with a grin while keeping his eyes on the road.
"I guess not,” I say with an unintentional quiver in my voice.
Roman turns his head, looks at me and squints again. It's like his eyes are a bullshit meter.
"What aren't you telling me?"
I take a deep breath and just spit it out. Chances are my mom told Juliette or Joseph most of what she knows, anyway.
"I didn't have a fight with my ex. We were both attacked in my apartment. That's why there's a hole in the wall."
Roman quickly swerves the Range Rover over to the shoulder of the road. I can hear bits of gravel popping as we roll over them.
"What happened?" he asks with an eerie but deadly like calm.
"Why are you stopping?" I ask nervously.
"Talk." He hooks my chin with his pointer finger. "And I mean everything, Duchess."
Every time he calls me that, I can't breathe.
I lean my body into the passenger side door as I speak, wishing I could burrow myself even further. The fresh air from the window I cracked is whipping stray hairs around my face and they're sticking to my lips. I'd do just about anything right now to change the subject, but I know it's not going to happen. I can see that about him already. The steely determination across his face. He's waiting patiently for my story, and he's made it clear that he doesn't like to ask for things twice.
"My boyfriend was over ... Ethan. We were fooling around in my bedroom when we heard a loud crash in the front of my apartment."
I turn to look at Roman's face. He motions for me to continue.
"There were men in the house."
"How many?"
"Three."
"How do you know there were three for sure?"
"Because two had guns drawn on Ethan and one knocked me out. My head made the hole in the wall."
Roman grips the steering wheel tightly while drawing deep breaths, and I stop talking. There's an awkward silence between us now.
We're still sitting on the shoulder of the road and Roman hasn't looked my way or spoken to me in over six minutes. I know it's been exactly six, because I've been paying close attention to the time on my phone. I don't know him that well, but his body language suggests that keeping quiet and giving him time to process what I said then let him calm down is the right approach.
"Is that why you're at my father's house?" he asks, finally breaking the silence.
"Yes, I couldn't stay in that apartment anymore. I just–"
"And where is ... Ethan?" he asks with disdain on his lips, although I don't know why. I haven't even told him about the drugs yet.
"His parents told me that he’s in rehab in Arizona."
"So this was drug related?"
"I think so, but I didn't know he did drugs,” I say in my defense. "Ethan is a swimmer and an athlete. He always told me that he'd never do drugs."
"Do you love him?"
"What?! No." That was a weird question.
"Is he still your boyfriend?"
You would think I'd have an emphatic answer of a "hell no" to that question, but it isn't that simple. I haven't spoken to Ethan since the incident. He hasn't called, texted, or even written me a frackin' letter. Even most of his friends are avoiding me. It's almost as if they blame me for what happened, when it's totally obvious that Ethan got knee deep into something that he brought to my doorstep not the other way around.
"Umm–"
Roman raises an eyebrow at that response but moves on.
"And so what did the men want from him? Money or drugs?"
"Drugs, I think. They said Ethan had something that belonged to them."
"Do you remember exactly what they said, Duchess?"
"The two with the guns didn't say anything. The one who knocked me out did all the talking. He said that Ethan was lying, that he was high on his shit right now."
"Did you say anything to them?"
"Not one word. He hit me when Ethan said he didn't know what they were talking about."
"And then you woke up and everyone was gone?"
"Yes."
This sounds even worse when I try to explain it.
"Ethan went to Penn with you?"
"Yes."
"Is he from here?"
"No, he's from Maryland but why? What are you going to do, Roman?" I panic a little. "I just want to put this whole thing behind me. Joseph should have never asked you to do this. It's my business and–"
"There's no way in hell Joseph knows about this. Trust me. He thinks all I'm doing is taking you to pick up the rest of your things. He knows something happened to you for you to leave your apartment so abruptly, but nothing like this. If you're worried that your parents told him what happened, they didn't, and they didn't tell Juliette. That's if your parents even know."
"They sort of know."
"Sort of?"
"They don't know about Ethan or the drugs. They just know I was attacked in my home. I guess they decided not to tell Joseph."
"Are you protecting that asshole?" he asks coldly.
"No, that's not it at all. I just wish you would let me handle it, Roman."
"You're family, so your business is my business. Remember that. And what the fuck are you so worried about, anyway? I told you, handling shit like this is what I do for a living, and I do it well."
He steers the car back on the road ... pissed off.
"You feel me?" he asks.
I nod.
Roman is saying all the right things, all very assuring things, but I worry that he's looking at me in a new light. I'm not sure why his opinion even matters to me, but it does.
Maybe he thinks differently of me now. Maybe he feels sorry for me. Maybe he realizes that I'm dumber than a doornail, because let's be honest, only an idiot would miss the fact that her boyfriend was a frackin' drug addict, right?
"Is that it?" He points to the management office of my old building while he unknowingly pulls into a parking space directly in front of my old apartment.
Roman is dressed in a slightly loose vintage ringer tee and worn jeans with a different pair of black hard bottomed boots on. His tats are very much visible today, and his height and width make him appear even more formidable. His shirt softly hugs his solid edges, and I gaze in amazement at what I already know is a six-pack rippling underneath. With a core that strong, I can't help but daydream about how easy it must be for him to lift a woman up and flip her over.
Good grief, I have issues.
"The black door,” I instruct. "Use the knocker. The bell doesn't work."
I move to open the passenger side door but Roman shuts me down with four simple words in an I'm not bullshitting tone of voice.
"Stay in the car."
I don't argue. I can feel the hostility rolling off of him like a dark thundercloud. I'm not even sure why he's so angry. The apartment manager didn't have anything to do with what happened, but I'm still worried because the apartment manager is an asshole, and Roman doesn't seem like he has a lot of patience for assholes.
Roman reaches inside the compartment area between the two front seats and pulls out a bag of plain M&M's. He rips the bag open, shakes a few in his palm, then tosses a few of the hard-shelled candies one by one in his mouth as he exits the car.
"Be right back," he says confidently.
He doesn't use the knocker, but uses one of his massive fists to pound on the door three times. My old apartment manager Owen answers the door with irritation across his face. His normal look.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm here to collect Elizabeth Hill's security deposit and the rest of her things. She has a couple of boxes in the basement."
"And you are?"
"The person who is here to collect Elizabeth Hill's security deposit and the rest of her things."
"Funny, but she needs to do it. I can't turn anything over to you legally. I don't know who you are."
"Are you a lawyer?" Roman snidely asks.
"Are you?" Owen retorts as his body stiffens, but Roman's body language remains the same.
Cool as a cucumber.
"Are you a cop?" Romans asks.
"ARE YOU?” Owen says in frustration. “Listen, dude, I don't have time for this."
Owen scans the area and spots me sitting in the car biting my nails practically down to the nubs.
“I see you, Miss Hill." He points in my direction. “And I highly suggest you forget about getting that security deposit back after the state you left my unit in."
"No, I highly suggest you shut the fuck up and go get what I asked for. I’m not going to tell you again,” Roman responds.
I motion to get out of the car to try to talk some sense into Owen, but I stop when Roman speaks to me again. He doesn't even turn around when he says it. He doesn't need to.
"Stay in the car, Elizabeth."
So I release the door handle and stay put.
He pops another few candies in his mouth and speaks with a deadly calm to Owen, as if he's holding onto his last bit of restraint.
"My cousin is in that car. You see her, right? She is here for her security deposit of ... what is it again, Elizabeth?" he calls out.
"Nine hundred and fifty dollars,” I answer meekly.
"Damn! Now that's a high ass security deposit. What is this the Trump Towers? Okay, so I'll need you to get nine hundred and fifty dollars cash and her remaining boxes. She doesn't need to get out of the car to sign anything, or talk to you, or whatever the fuck. That's why I'm here. Hand everything over to me in the next five minutes and we'll be square. You don't want to cooperate then we're going to have a major problem, because I didn't drive all the way over here to leave empty-handed."
Roman cracks his neck.
"You feel me, dickhead?"