ROME
Chapter thirteen
Ihate this.
Any time I’m summoned by my parents, I have a shameful knot in the pit of my stomach from the moment I get the phone call until it’s over and I’m walking away.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and blow it into the white scarf I’ve tucked my face into to shield myself from the chilling rain whilst pulling my vibrating phone from my pocket.
Unknown: I’m hoping you will bless me with a response today.
Unknown: How was practise?
Unknown: I made something. Like it?
A second later, a picture attachment comes through. I tap on the image, inspecting the black circle in the centre, detailed green lines expanding to the edge of the circular canvas. It’s detailed, so incredibly lifelike, and there’s no mistaking what it is.
Me: You painted my eye?
Unknown: Left, to be specific. I’m working on the right as we speak.
Suddenly too aware of it, my left eye begins to buzz.
There must be something wrong with him. He held his dick in his hand while thinking about a goddamn eyeball. I’ve heard of a foot fetish and many others, but…an eyeball? That’s not normal.
I’ve debated calling the police about him again, but he told me to call them, that they’ll never find him, and I, for some reason, believe that.
Three hours of light sleep is the maximum I’ve been getting since Rain appeared on my bed.
I spent the entirety of my scheduled rest day yesterday running through drills until I was exhausted.
This morning consisted of training, the gym, a massage, and hydrotherapy afterward, followed by shooting a commercial for one of our sponsors.
That took longer than usual; I couldn’t concentrate and kept messing up my lines or not adding the required enthusiasm.
When I received a call from my mother about this lunch, it only increased my frustration.
The only upside? Kilah and Indie. Once they turned fourteen, the twins began to notice how controlling our parents are.
Of course, Mum and Dad blamed me for the fact that the twins started talking back to them.
That’s not my influence, that’s called being a teenager.
I exit Rain’s texts, the sudden change of temperature as I enter the restaurant sending a warm shudder through my body.
Passing a few tables sat around the large indoor garden, I spot my father’s eyes already locked on me from across the room by the window, cutlery scraping plates and people chatting unfavourable to the pounding in my head.
“That’s Rome,” I hear a young boy announce as I pass a table.
“Braxton,” a woman scolds.
Small arms wrap around my waist from the side, making me stop. I look down at the dark-haired boy who looks no older than seven. Big, brown eyes stare up at me. “Hey, lad,” I chuckle.
“Rome.”
“Is that my name?” I move out of his hold to crouch before him.
“I’m so sorry,” his mother with matching features apologises as she approaches. “Brax, you can’t just run up to people.”
“But it’s Rome,” he argues. “Can I get a picture?”
“Brax,” she berates harder this time.
“It’s fine,” I laugh, narrowing my eyes at him. “Silly or serious?”
He shrugs. “Both?”
I lean my shoulder down for him to wrap his arm around and smile while his mother takes a photo.
“What pose?” I ask. He pokes out his tongue, and I follow suit and pose for the photo.
“Thank you,” his mother mouths.
I wave her off as I straighten and hold out my knuckle. “Good to meet you, Brax.”
He smashes his fist against mine. “Thanks, Rome. You’re my favourite player ever.”
His mother smiles, holding him against her. “Countless posters.”
I mock gasp. “You have posters of me?”
“Yeah.” He throws out his hand. “Everyone does.”
I smile and wave, hoping the irritation clawing at me isn’t evident. I snatch my vibrating from my pocket.
Unknown: I understand taking photos with kids, but why the fuck were you talking to HER for so long?
I stop a few meters from the table, subtly eyeing the security camera closest to me.
Me: Don’t you have better things to do? Like paint?
Unknown: I can multitask. Watch you while I paint. Suck you off while my fingers move in and out of that delicious ass.
Me: Never happening.
Unknown: WHY were you talking to her for so long?
Me: I’m fucking gay, you ignorant prick.
Unknown: Well aware of that detail, baby. I just don’t like people having your attention.
Me: I get a lot of attention.
Unknown: You have theirs. I’m the only person who should have yours.
I slowly move toward the table again.
Me: I won’t ignore people because of your jealousy about a relationship that doesn’t exist.
Unknown: It does in my mind.
I stuff my phone back into my pocket, and Indie adjusts the white bow in her half up ponytail as she spots me. Her long, pastel pink satin dress and wrap cardigan sway as she rushes toward me, wrapping her arms around my neck.
“Save us,” she whispers.
Kilah trudges up from her seat and is next to embrace me, but I know I'm not what’s soured her mood.
Everyone's faces look like they’ve just consumed an entire lemon after only five minutes with our parents.
Kilah plops back down, and I round the table to kiss my mother’s cheeks. My father’s wrinkling hand takes mine.
Yep, cool disappointment, still there. One missed goal. That’s all it takes for him to look at me like I’m no better than dirt.
He eyes my white cashmere jumper and trousers in disgust. This man feels the need to wear a suit each time he leaves the house. “You’re late.” He rips his hand from mine.
“Traffic,” I reply dryly.
Stalking back to the head of the table, I remove my coat and scarf, draping them over my chair.
Indie lifts her cup, sipping her tea, while Kilah keeps her arms crossed over her navy and white cashmere jumper, staring aimlessly at the white tablecloth.
They’re so similar, yet worlds different. Indie is currently attending the Royal Ballet School, and Kilah is focused on achieving high grades in hopes of attending university to study criminal law.
“What happened?” my father spits.
“I missed,” I answer honestly. He arches a brow and that painful knot tightens. “Won’t happen again,” I assure him.
“Shouldn’t have happened in the first place.”
My mother slides her hand over his arm, trying to calm him as she looks to me. “All he’s saying, sweetheart, is that we know you can do better.”
Her words seem light, but the harsh tone suggests she’s even more disappointed than him.
“It’s one point that can make the difference,” he argues quietly, not daring to look at the disappointment that is his son.
I bow my head, squeezing my hand in the other.
He is right. When approaching the end of the season and you’re neck and neck, one point can determine a chance for finals or a year’s work down the drain.
“It was one game,” Kilah argues. “It’s not the end of the world.”
He throws her a ‘shut your fucking mouth’ look. My body tightens, and I glare at him.
“Dad.” Indie reaches across for his hand. “Rome made a mistake. He said it won’t happen again.”
He relaxes and smiles.
Our father makes no attempt to hide that Indie is his favourite. I don’t care that I’m not, but I feel for Kilah and try to make her feel seen and heard.
After barely stomaching my food, my gaze drifts back to the security camera in the corner.
“So, have you been seeing anyone?” my mother asks, adjusting the sleeves of her tight black dress.
My mother’s forty-one and my father fifty, but they still think themselves twenty.
My mother certainly attempts to stay looking that young, and my father hasn’t let himself go at all. He’s still lean and fit.
“It would be all over the internet if he were,” Indie teases quietly.
I force a laugh and sip my tea, trying to drown the unease, because I don’t doubt that Rain may just appear. “No,” I answer.
Mum’s hand slides over mine. “You will meet a great girl one day.”
I pull my hand away and wrap it around my cup to join the other. The day I told my parents I was gay when I was thirteen was the day disappointed disgust became permanently etched in their gazes.
“M-Mum,” I stutter, my heart pounding as I rub my thumbs against the underside of my fingers.
Recognising my nerves, she places her magazine on the coffee table. “What’s wrong, Rome?”
“C-can I talk to you?”
“Sure, sweetheart.” She pats the cushion beside her.
It sinks beneath me, and nerves crawl higher up my throat when my father steps in to takes a seat on the adjacent chair, still in his navy suit.
“I, um…” I try to force out the words as quickly as possible. “I’m gay.”
My father’s face turns to utter shock…before he laughs. “No, you’re not.”
I’d worked up so much courage to tell them this, and I thought they’d understand, but…
“Sweetheart,” my mother croons, running her finger through my hair. The movement only adds to how cold I now feel and the sudden tears I just want to let go.
“It’s these people. They’re trying to convince you it’s possible, Rome.” Dad stares at me. “It’s not. You can’t be gay. Men belong with women, that’s it.”
My chin trembles, and I shake my head. “I like boys, Mum.”
“No, you don’t,” my father laughs. Tears wobble in my burning eyes. “It’s a phase, Rome. You’ll get over it. Now, go get dressed for training.”
It feels like ice is cracking inside me as I push up to stand. My throat burns as I try to walk down the hall as quietly as possible so the twins don’t hear me. Pulling down my sleeve, I rip it across my wet eyes, wiping away the tears, because men don’t cry.
Maybe they’re right.
Maybe it’s just a phase.
Maybe there’s something wrong with me.
My outstretched key freezes mid-air as I stare at the new stainless-steel handle with a pad attached above it.
No. This prick did not install new security.
I rip my phone from my coat pocket and call the last number he texted with.
“Hey, baby,” he greets excitedly.
“What did you do to my doors?”
“I told you I’d get you new ones,” he says nonchalantly. “The operation manual is on your kitchen counter and so is the one for your new cameras, so you can download the app. They have thermal detection too. If you tap the handle screen, it brings up a keypad. The pin is 0927.”
“You set a fucking pin?” I shout, throwing my arm up like he can see me. My face pulls taut, and I spin on my feet, surveying the corners of the garage for cameras.
“It’s the day we met. Well, the day I first saw you,” he clarifies. “Best day of my fucking life. Fate, baby, that’s what this is.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I growl.
“Rome, you know what that does to me.”
“Go jerk off to your painting, you prick. And the correct sequence would be 2709.” I pull the phone away to hang up.
If he was installing new cameras and door handles, why did security not at least question him and call me to confirm what he was doing?
Taking out my wallet, I find the police officer’s card from first time I called them, type in the number, and dial.