FORCE: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (43 page)

Emmy

Settling into the seat behind him felt more awkward than it ever had before.  I kept thinking of how he had left without telling me and then returned with no explanation.  Leaving me floating aimless and alone. 

I wasn't so much mad at him as I was mad at myself. 

I settled my arms around his waist as he kicked the bike to life.  He shot a look over his shoulder and then nodded.  I nodded back and he launched us forward with a throaty roar. 

He took the narrow street slowly, wending us north and west, past the trendy bars of Northern Liberties and up past the crumbling factories of Kensington.  I saw more abandoned lots, more trash in the street.  He made a left, going so slowly down one road that I was afraid we'd lose momentum and fall over.  Then he forced the bike up onto the sidewalk and cut the motor.

"Is this it?"  I looked alone the crowded block.  Two story rowhomes crowded the sidewalk, while cars were parked at crazy angles all along the street.  The sun baked down on the shimmering pavement.  A hot breeze stirred up an errant plastic bag and lifted it high over our heads, sending it down to the empty lot at the end of the block to join the rest of the trash caught in the fence.

I had never been in a rowhome before, in spite of having lived in Philadelphia for over two years now.  I marveled at how they were all exactly the same, but for the little touches added by the homeowner.  The one right in front of us was tidy and neat, the covered porch carefully set with patio furniture and the flowerboxes blooming and well cared for.  But the one right next door had the porch roof sagging dangerously overhead and bars set menacingly in the windows.

"Over there." He pointed to the house three doors down from where we stood. It looked tired, but clean at least.  J.'s eyes crinkled slightly when he saw it.

"Does it look the same?" I asked.

He inhaled a little.  "Actually, it kind of looks better." There was a note in his voice I couldn't place, though I tried hard to identify it.  Was it sadness?  Wistfulness?  Was he wondering what had happened while he was gone?  I thought about my parents' house, the narrow, green painted Victorian sitting hunkered in a hollow.  It couldn't be more different from J.'s childhood home, but I knew I would approach it with the same trepidation if I saw it. 

I tried to slip my hand into his, but he either didn't notice my attempt, or didn't want my touch.  Instead he started walking, striding forward on his long legs.  After a moment's hesitation, I followed, my uneasiness growing with each step.

They must have heard his heavy footfalls on the porch through the open window, because a tall woman with a closely cropped haircut threw open the door at once.  I saw the same angled cheekbones and the same curved up eyes, and recognized her immediately.  Janelle.  J.'s younger sister.

She opened her arms, her face flooded with so much emotion that she couldn't speak.  J. stood stiffly, allowing himself to be hugged and clutched.  "It's really you," she babbled into his black T-shirt.  I tried to look anywhere but at the two of them.  This seemed too private for me to witness.

I was starting to wonder why I was here.

"Is that my baby boy?" A short woman, nearly as wide as she was tall, hauled herself painfully before us.  Her thin hair was done up in tight curls that only added to the general roundness of her face.  While her children were made of angles, she was all curves, a short neck that sloped gently into soft shoulders which curved down into the wide expanse of her bosom and the even wider expanse of her waist.  She raised her short, round arms and hauled J. downward, bending him almost double to kiss his expressionless face.

I really wondered why I was here.

"Hi Mama." J. said the words so softly I almost missed them.  He pulled himself back upright and out of her grasp.  Her arms flopped back down to her sides in a way that made me sad.

"This is Emmy," he stepped back and gestured to me.  The two women finally registered my presence, their faces inscrutable.

"Emmy, welcome," Janelle said, an odd tightness in her voice.

"Thank you for having me."  I extended my hand.  She grasped it limply and let it fall away.

"You two together?" his mother asked pointedly.  I could see her taking in my pale skin and white-blond hair. 

"Emmy, this is my mother, Meryl Johnson," J. cut in before I could answer.  There was tightness around his jaw.

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Johnson," I replied, extending my hand.  Janelle visibly winced.

"It's Ms.," she barked back to me.  "If he doesn't want to be a husband, then I don't want to be a wife.  I only keep the name so's it's the same as my kids'."

"And how the fuck was Emmy supposed to know that, Ma?" J. barked right back. 

"Dunno, thought you might have told her before you brought her into my house." Ms. Johnson's eyes blazed fiercely and I saw the same emerald fire that burned in J.'s gaze.

"It's my house too, Ma," J. choked in a strangled sigh.

"How you figure that?"

"
Stop."
Janelle raised a warning hand.  "Both of you stop right now.  We are having dinner as a family for the first time in six years.  Just stop this right now."

J. cast his eyes to the ground, but Ms. Johnson flared her nostrils up at her daughter.  "I'm not in the business of being told off by my own daughter."

Janelle cast her eyes heavenward.  "Mama, I'm not telling you off.  Let's just go inside.  Please."

They trooped inside, leaving me on the porch.  I shifted back and forth, wanting to flee.  But where would I go? 

The dull ache of my dependency sharpened as I unwillingly stepped through the door and entered the house, unwelcome and unnoticed.

J.

It felt smaller. Choking and claustrophobic.  The house bore down on him with the weight of the past, threatening to crush all the progress he'd made in the past six years.  All the work he had done, all the effort he had made to become something bigger and better than this stifling space. In stepping through that front door, he could very well believe that he was still the same boy of eighteen, the day before his world had been rocked by his best friend's betrayal.  Still beholden to his mama.  Still confined to these narrow streets in this one corner of Philadelphia that used to be his entire world.
The only thing that let him believe things had changed was the sound of Emmy's sweet breath behind him. 

She had his back.  With her here, he felt as if might be possible to sit through dinner with his mom and sister without screaming and running for the door.  Emmy would keep the rage at bay, he told himself.  She was the only one who could.

Once they were in the living room, his mother turn wordlessly and walked back to the kitchen.  She began banging pots and pans, letting them all know how hard she was working, and how they should really come in there and help her.  But instead J. ignored the tiny flicker of the habit of guilt, and instead flopped onto the sagging pink couch that took up much of the living room. 

"You need a new TV," he observed, gesturing to the wood paneled behemoth that hulked in the corner.  It was the same one he had watched as a child.

"How we gonna afford that?" Janelle wondered.

"I could get one for you, I guess." J. wondered where the hell that offer had come from.

"A flat screen would let you have a bit more room in here," Emmy piped up.  J. looked at her fondly and patted the space on the couch next to him.

She came to him immediately, wiggling herself into the tight space in a very appealing way.  J. ran his fingers up the soft curve of her neck and tangled them in her silky, fine hair.  He wished his sister would leave them alone for a moment.

Janelle was wound too tightly to get the hint.  "That's be great J., but I don't think Randy would like you buying anything for us."

J. felt cold like fingers clutching his heart.  "Randy?" he asked, tasting the unfamiliar nickname on his tongue.  "He goes by Randy now?"  He chuckled, willing his heartbeat to slow down and stop asking for a fight.  "Well an asshole deserves an asshole name, I guess."

He felt Emmy shoot him a look. 
Don't get too worked up,
it said.  He wanted to start counting backwards from ten, but his sister's voice was drowning out all efforts to calm himself.

"Don't do this J.," she was pleading, her voice rising higher and higher.  It drove itself into his ears like nails on a chalkboard, only serving to anger him further.  "He's my boyfriend, he's good to us, he's good to Mama.  It's different now, and he's sorry, he really is.  I wish you'd forgive him, he was just a kid."

"Sorry," J. spat.  Emmy slipped a small hand over his and he resisted the urge to jerk it away and stand up.  "I'll wait to hear it from his mouth before I start thinking about forgiveness." J. looked around the room pointedly.  "I notice he's not here to speak for himself?"

Janelle pressed her lips together.  "He was getting you a case from the beer distributors. "

"How long ago was that?"

She tapped her foot and wouldn't look at him. 

"Ah, there's my answer." J. felt his own foot tapping up and down in imitation of her anxious pose.  He felt like he was mocking her, but he couldn't stop.  Emmy's hand was bouncing up and down on his.  She pressed down to stop him, but he only jiggled harder.

Footfall on the wooden stairs of the porch froze all three of them.  Heavy, manly tread.  Both Janelle and Emmy shot J. terrified looks and he shut his eyes to avoid their gaze.

Ten nine eight seven six five four three two one.

But he had forgotten to breathe.

And when he opened his eyes, his breath flooded out.  Like the man standing sorrowfully in front of him had punched him in the gut with his presence.

"Jerry."

Six years had made him stockier.  There was no trace of the skinny, punk ass kid who wanted to be a bad ass.  The man in front of him wore a yellow polo shirt tucked aggressively into khakis.  He looked like a banker.  Or a golfer.  J. got the vague notion that he had dressed up for the occasion. 

J. tried to find his words, but all he could say was, "No one calls me Jerry anymore."  He shook his head.  "I always hated that name.  You know that."  He paused. "Knew that."

"What should I call you then?" Randall's voice was soft and even, like he was coaxing a wild animal.  It was pissing J. off.

"How about we cut the shit,
Randy."
J. chewed on the new name and spat it back out again. 

"Jeremiah!" His mother suddenly appeared in kitchen doorway.  "Language!"

Emmy jumped a little, and Janelle ducked her head like she was the one being chastised.  The rage was coming, like a freight train going too fast to brake in time.  The collision was imminent.

He slid out from under Emmy, carefully depositing her on the couch, before drawing himself up to his full height.  Randall shrank back, and it made J. feel good to know what he saw.  J. had six inches on him, and at least thirty more pounds of muscle.  He knew the leather jacket was intimidating, even without his cut.  He knew the bike, the tattoos, the time he spent in prison, that all gave him a reputation.  And when it came to Randall, that reputation was fucking well deserved. 

"I don't give a
fuck
about my language."  He stepped forward until his face was inches from Randall's.  The smaller man was trying to stand firm and not squirm under J.'s fury.  "I wanna hear what you have to say to me."

Randall's voice caught.  "I'm sorry, J."  He opened his mouth further and J. waited for the rest.  Waited to hear the excuses.  But the words didn't come.  Randall only made a short gasping noise and ducked his head.

Janelle was at his arm in an instant, threading her arm through his as if she was afraid he might fall without her support.  She whirled at J. her nostrils flaring in a perfect imitation of their mother's indignant rage.  "There, he said it.  What else do you want from him J.?"

"I want my life back.  He fucking stole it from me, and I want it back."  He sank his fingers into Randall's chest, poking him as hard as he could, wishing it were a punch. "Can you do that,
Randy?
  Can you?"

"I can't," Randall's voice was choked with remorse, but J. didn't give a shit. 

"I want it back," he repeated to the room.  To his mother and his sister.  His family.

But they weren't looking at him.  All their attention was on Randall as slow tears trailed down his face.  Janelle made soothing sounds as she rubbed his arm up and down.  His mother busily made to wet a paper towel and handed it to Janelle, who dabbed his face and neck.   Then she flopped into her easy chair and muttered darkly about her heart.

There was nothing for him here.

Emmy

I was a ghost.

I fluttered at the edges of rooms, hovering inconsequential and unnoticed. 

Aside from the cold greeting, J.'s family didn't acknowledge me.

And once Randall entered the room, J. didn't acknowledge me either. 

I watched numbly as the man I loved morphed into the living embodiment of hatred.  I did not know this man.   I did not know the depths of the pain of his past.  I did not understand the fathoms of his rage.  I couldn't.  I saw his family standoff against him, aligning themselves with the man who had ruined his life.  I watched them very clearly choose sides.  And they were against him.

And then he left. 

Without me.

I was forced to pick myself primly up from the sofa and creep quietly to the front door.  The Johnsons ignored my exit. 

I stepped out onto the porch to hear the bike roar to life.  For one heart pounding moment I thought he was leaving me here.

Instead he rolled forward to the steps.  "You coming?" he shouted over the bike.  His voice was high and tight, forced from his throat.

Again, I had nowhere else to go.  I perched on the back of his bike.  I had to hold on to him in order to stay on, but my fingers barely recognized him.

*****

The ride back to the clubhouse was too short to calm his rage.  I could still feel it coming off of him in waves.  I wanted to say something as soon as he cut the engine.  I wanted to remind him that I was there too.  That I had seen what they had done and I was sorry.

But the brothers of the Sons of Steel were waiting for us upon our return. As J. idled into the garage, all eyes were upon us. 

"Short visit," I heard Case remark when the noise of the engine died away.

There was nowhere for us to go to speak in private.  And so I had to smile and pretend that everything was okay.

"You back?" Case called.  His tone was conciliatory.

"Yeah, I'm back."   Something in J.'s voice that made Case nod in understanding.  A truce had been declared.  For the moment, anyway.

"How'd it go?" Crash piped up.

"Bad," was all J. said in reply.  I waited a beat for him to elaborate.  Then I waited for him to ask for some privacy.  But he didn't do either.

"Sucks," Crash replied.  "Wanna party?"

I hung back, barely able to contain my shock. 

Crash grinned widely when J. showed interest. 
"I got these three fine bitches coming over soon.  Things are too serious around here and these chicks know how to have a good time."

Case start nodding excitedly.  "We need a party," he agreed.  "They good-lookin'?"

"The Puerto Rican's mine," Crash quickly announced.  "You know I like my senoritas."

"How about the other two?"

"College girls," Crash nodded significantly.

"What college?" I spoke up, just to make sure I still existed.

"Temple, right?" Case asked.

"Nah, these chicks aren't from Temple," Crash explained.  "They're community college.  Townies."

"So they know how to drink.  Nice." Case looked ecstatic.

J. was thoughtful for a moment.  I waited for him to ask them to give us space.  Time to talk and process what had just happened with his family.  There had to be some reason he wanted me there to witness that, and I needed to know.

But J. turned back to his brothers.  "Good, let's get drunk," he agreed.