“Something to worry about later,” I said. “Logistics, right?”
I willed encouragement to him, to see past the inevitable roadblocks and take this for the win that it was. I tracked his gaze, the minor expressions, the twitches. Mr. Perfect wanted to take flight and say something chivalrous and right.
A light in his eyes. Finally. The glimmer of a smile. “You’re sure?”
I grinned. “Of course I’m sure. Don’t worry about my schedule. We’ll figure that out.” I rounded the table and slipped my arms along his side, tilting my head back to look up at him. “I love you, Rome, and I want to live with you.”
“Ti amo,” he whispered, then hefted me up by my ass and sat me on the dining-room table. He shoved aside a folded pile of clothes and scooted me back. “Ti amo tanto.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alex
ICLOSEDTHEdoor to the bedroom as quietly as I could so as not to disturb Rome. I figured he’d sleep through the night despite taking what he had called a nap. The sun had already sunken below the horizon, twilight fading to the fullness of night. His flight left Annapolis early and he was running on little sleep. Thankfully he had a break tomorrow, so he could afford to have a bit of a wonky sleep schedule.
We went at each other like wrestlers in the ring moments after he arrived home. We started out in the shower and ended in the bed. I slipped out when his breathing slowed to the rhythm of an athlete at rest.
I tip-toed into the study across the hall and fired up my computer. On the desk, my phone chimed to let me know I had a new email. I navigated on my computer to check it.
My vision tunneled. Heart rate jumped.
Something from Ricky. He used yet another email address to get through.
I opened the new email before I could think better of it.
The subject line read, “what have we hear” and yes, he spelled it incorrectly.
The email said, “someone forgot to change there password.look at allllllll these pics i have now. u know how easy it is to leak this shit and tank his career with some faggy pictures of you 2? come to your apt so we can talk about it. dont make any fucking threats either. league wont take me back so what the fuck do I care now?”
The breath caught in my throat. I dry swallowed and saw a number of choice photos Ricky had attached to the email. Nothing x-rated (I wasn’t stupid enough to post those anywhere) but certainly intimate ones I tried to capture. Us on the couch. Me stealing a kiss before the flash went off. An artsy one of us pressed against the wall in a loving embrace. Too many kissing pics to count.
My old professor’s voice boomed in my head. “Change your passwords!” repeated itself over and over as I continued to reread Ricky’s email and stare at the pictures as if seeing them for the first time.
He hacked the e-share site I used for my clients. Well, “hack” was the wrong word since I was stupid enough to never change user log-in credentials.Stupid, stupid, stupid!
None of the photos were recent. I stopped snapping pics weeks ago, but all the early ones were there. I hopped into the account and immediately changed my password, not that it mattered. The cursing out I did in my head for being so foolish and using the same password for everything—even for new clients, which once included Ricky. It was how we first met. The smell of a sweaty, dank gym in some basement training facility in Boston, as I grabbed candids of the trainees for the gym owner.
“Hey boss, lemme see those when you’re done,” Ricky had said. Sweet. Caring. His eyes on fire with sexual appetite.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid,stupid.
The pictures were shockingly innocuous, nothing beyond PG-13 in my opinion. But they were damning enough for acloseted major league baseball player who kept his private life locked up in a Fort Knox of quietude. If you looked up “mum’s the word” online you’d see a photo of my Romo. No one had a candid pic of him outside the stadium. No token body shots for a health magazine. No foreign commercials of him doing silly things. Nothing. Rome was as plain as butterless toast. But these? These photos? They would reveal another side of him. Good or ill, Rome would be mortified. How could I let that happen to him? How could I throw the door open to the private life of everyone’s beloved Romo?
I opened up the web browser and did a quick search on Ricky Jordan. I was rewarded with numerous articles about his most recent fight. A video highlight showed him winning the fight, then relentlessly beating his opponent and even striking the ref. The savagery in his eyes. Pure malevolence. I paused it at the right—or wrong—moment to see the utter hatred and discontent that lived there. I went back to my email where his threats glared at me like his sinister eyes.
He’s a monster, I thought. No wonder the league kicked him out. I’m sure there were hefty fines and charges, as well.
A monster. Unleashed. Targeting Rome. I couldn’t let him go through with it.
I unblocked Ricky’s number from my phone and texted him. I’d be there in twenty minutes.
?
I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment like I was visiting my future gravesite. Fear cloyed my stomach like a stone. I couldn’t see straight. Palms were slick with sweat. Heart fluttering like I was freefalling on a roller coaster. I slid into my usual spot. Lead feet stepped out of the car and hit the pavement. It was a cooler evening. October days around thecorner. My skin undulated with goose bumps and not from the chill.
Three spaces down, Ricky climbed out of his car. He wore a black t-shirt and jeans, his arms inked with tattoos. He walked with the cool swagger of a fighter gliding toward the octagon.
Toward me.
