Page 72 of Personal Foul
“Which is why you hate the nickname,” I whisper softly, things I’ve wondered about for a long time coming together. Because I’d always been surprised someone as arrogant as he was didn’t like the nickname that was built on the premise of how phenomenal he was on the field.
“Yep. Nothing like having thousands of fans chant the fucking name your bitch of a mother gave you as a joke.”
“Is there a chance she just liked it? That naming you was the one thing she could do?”
He gives me a look that says I’m flirting with stupidity.
“And maybe she thought your dad could give you a life she couldn’t? Maybe she thought Donna could give you what she couldn’t? I think it’s a lot to assume that she thought it was all a joke.”
“She’s never come back to check on me. No calls. No letters. Nothing. You don’t need to guess when the silence is that loud, Princess.” He shakes his head. “Now can we talk about something more pleasant? How’s your Gramps? Waylon said he heard he was doing better. That true?”
I eye him warily, wanting to argue with him about his mom. But it’s not my business, not really. He’s obviously in a brittle state, and I’m here to make things better, not worse. I’m not a therapist after all. I can’t fix that kind of pain, even with good bar food. All I can do is be here, hold his hand, and try to give him what I can offer.
“He’s making progress. Talking a little. Telling me to get my ass back to work and school instead of trying to hold his hand. I still hate that he’s in rehab though. I wish I could bust him out and bring him back home. But he needs more care than Sherry can give. I’m worried he might need to move into a place more permanently, and he’ll be so mad if that’s the case. I’m not looking forward to it,” I spill my guts because that’s the effect Easton has on me. I feel comfortable around him. Like I can tell him the hard shit and he’ll just listen and take it in stride without pitying me in the process.
He finishes the last of his burger and wads up the paper, throwing it in the bag.
“Well, I’m glad to hear he’s doing better but sorry to hear about the rest. I know you don’t want my help, but if there’s anything I can do. You know I’m here.”
“I know. And I am grateful for that.” I try to catch his eyes with mine, but he stays focused on the food in front of him, flipping open the box of apple pie and looking at it briefly.
“I think I’m full.” His eyes lift slowly, and he grins at me.
“I’ve seen you eat before. And I know you like pie. Finish the food. You need something in your stomach.”
“Fine but come sit in my lap.”
“Why?”
“Do you want me to finish it or not?”
“Fine.” I sigh, and I move to my knees to crawl a little closer to him across the bed. Before I get far, he snatches me with one arm, dragging me onto his lap, my legs straddling one of his thighs and his arm pinning me tight against him. His eyes drift over me, his lips pressing together with a hint of amusement. He uses the little plastic fork I tucked in the box to cut himself a bite of pie and eats it, before he taps it against his lips, smiling at me.
“What?”
“Just thinking about the way you moaned over that cake at the hotel.” He grins wider and takes another bite.
“I miss that cake. It was amazing. Definitely the best I’ve ever had.”
“Yeah? Has the cake since then been disappointing?”
“I wouldn’t know. Haven’t had any.”
“Me either.”
I let out a choked laugh, and his eyes rise to mine.
“What’s funny, Princess?”
“You want me to believe you haven’t had any cake? That you didn’t run straight to the cake store and get like three different flavors to have in one night?”
He tosses the half-eaten pie aside and grabs his phone, flipping through it and then hands it to me. I take it from him, confused, and look down. It’s pictures he took of the photos he had spread out on my bed that first night when we hate fucked our way into this mess. I should be pissed that he took them. That he kept them. But something flutters through my chest at the sight of them. What it means, that he still has them.
“That’s the only cake I even look at. Every night. Like I have a fucking problem. Go through the rest of the phone if you don’t believe me.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye, and I flip back out to his main gallery. And nothing. Just pictures of food and drinks from the bar. A few of the new dishes we’d come up with for the reopening. A couple from his trip to The Combine. But no women. I flip to his text messages and his messenger app, and there are no girls’ names, no suggestive messages, nothing. I look up at him.
“Hurts a little that you didn’t just believe me. But now you know for sure, right Princess?” He takes the phone back from me and puts it on his nightstand.
