Page 77 of Watched

Her question gives me pause. He broke into my house, multiple time at that, but my feelings toward him are a turmoil of gravitating toward him and wanting to run the hell away. He scares me, but part of me knows that he would never allow anyone to hurt me. I want to believe he wouldn’t hurt me either.

“Yes,” I answer, although the word comes out unsure.

“Well, at least you know if you don’t want him around, the girls will chase him away with a frying pan each.”

The psycho would probably laugh while they did, waiting for them to fall asleep before he climbed through my balcony window to suck me off.

I’ve needed space to sort through my family problems and my head. My mother turning a page and making the effort to accept me differs from coming out to the rest of the world. I don’t know if I’m ready for that, and Rain’s the jealous, possessive type who would display our faces on a billboard to stake his claim.

Mum relaxes a little, tilting her head as she stares at the grass before us with a lost gaze and a small smile. “I’m proud of you, Rome. Your father always claimed to have made you the player you are, but that was all you.” I hide my smile with my cup as her gaze slides to me. “To see you out there playing with and against people you once looked up to…It’s inspiring to see how much you still love what you do. You’ve made your dream a reality, and very few people achieve that.”

“I did it with help.”

“Coaching and support only go so far.”

She may be right, but without her driving me to games and training, I wouldn’t have become better. Granted, I was stubborn—I would have walked there myself if needed, but I guess she’s referring to my drive to achieve the highest level I could.

There were many times I was frustrating for my coaches—I’d ask many questions and insist on running through a drill over until I perfected it. I’d even made a few coaches stay after the rest of the team left, just so they could work one-on-one with me. Of course, my parents were required to pay for their time. I guess that’s why I feel I owe them money, for what they spent financially and time-wise so I could achieve my dream.

The day I signed those papers should have been the happiest moment of my life.

And it was…for five minutes.

My mother was crying and holding me, confessing how proud she was. Then she looked to my father and let go. He shook my hand and nodded. Since I came out to them at thirteen, shaking my hand is the only contact he’ll allow himself to have with his son, as though touching me will taint him in some way.

Mum’s smile falters. “I can understand your hesitation toward sharing yourself with the world.” I drop my head, the soothing tea now churning in my stomach. “People will judge you no matter what you do. Miss a goal, get a goal—they’ll still judge. Be who you are, hide it away; that choice is yours to make. I’m sorry that I made you feel you had to hide it.”

I nod, the rain starting to pour again. Pushing up, I open the umbrella. Holding the handle and my cup in one hand, I extend the other to her. “A gentleman would not allow you to walk to your car alone.” I dip my chin. “Or in the rain unsheltered.”

She wraps her arm around me, resting her head against my shoulder as we walk. “I love you, Rome.”

“I love you too, Mum.”

Chapter thirty

RAIN

Dipping my finest brush into the beige on my pallet, I place the last dot in the inner third of the right eye and centre to the bridge of her nose, lightly tapping the brush to the canvas. Placing the palette and brush aside, I take a rag to wipe my paint-splattered hands.

This time, I am stroking my ego, because this painting is a fucking masterpiece. While I’m sure Blade would argue it is the subject that is the beauty, my hand brought it to life.

I should’ve slept, but once I started this painting eighteen hours ago, I felt a flow and kept going.

I jump when floorboards beneath me thump with a beat, and I toss the rag to the table and open the door, continuing past the first accessible banister to the farthest and swinging myself around. There are times I’m infuriated with my brain. Last time, I ascended the right staircase, so I go down the right. The time before that, I came up left and went down left. When I come back up, it’ll be left again. It’s something I started doing when I was six, and I’ve never been successful in breaking the habit. I messed up once when I was chasing after Alexa, and I haven’t been in sync since. Each time I begin to ascend or descend a staircase, I’m always reminded it should be the other. I can’t go back and correct it—I’d already fucked up and my brain continuously reminds me of that.

Just Pretend by Bad Omens blasts through the sound system, rattling my brain as I step through the stairs, an icy breeze shooting through the open glass concertina doors across the room.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, stalking out to the back porch.

The pool emits its usual green glow to the left, the tennis court at the far end visible in the moonlight. I pause, spotting Blade laying in the middle of the grass, the neck of a bottle of whiskey clasped in his left hand, a cigarette burning between fingers of his right.

He looks like a sad sack of potatoes drowning in toxic substances.

I slide my hands into my jean pockets, the cool night chilling the metal draped around my neck. Stepping to his side, I look down and cock my head. “Are you depressed?” He doesn’t spare me a glance, he simply points his cigarette above, the tattoos covering his arms and torso appearing more menacing in the moonlight. I tip my head back and realise why he’s out here. I sigh and look back down, an orange glow now lighting his face. “I finished the painting.”

He cocks a brow, releasing the puff of smoke. “Already?”

“I work fast.”