I shouldn’t do that. I should be sensible and mature and grown up. This man has the power to ruin me. And yet… I’m not sure I care. Maybe I never stopped being that reckless kid because I don’t let it lie. I don’t keep quiet and do what I’m told. No. I force a casual shrug and say, “So do it. Tell the world I’m a criminal, then you can sit back and watch as your son visits me in prison. That won’t hurt your perfect little image at all.”
Richard’s nostrils flare.
I hold still, staring at him and praying to the universe that he can’t tell I’m bluffing. Completely and utterly bluffing, because Richard’s right, Roman is the last person I want to know about what I did. He’s the only one who hasn’t ever judged me, hasn’t ever told me that I’m too much, that I’m trouble. I don’t want to prove him wrong, but I know that’s what would happen if he found out. He’d look at me in that exasperated, disappointed way and I would crumble.
Richard opens his mouth but before he can say anything, Roman’s hand settles on my back.
“Sorry about that. I got him out into the car, but we should probably go.” Roman squeezes my shoulder. I barely feel it.
Richard stares at me for a moment, cool blue eyes ice picks in my skin.
I stiffen, an infinitesimal amount really, but it’s enough for Roman to pick up on. He looks between his father and me, the lines of his jaw sharpening. “What did you say to her?” he asks, his voice lower than I’ve ever heard it.
I flinch and stand up. Cupping Roman’s cheek with trembling fingers, I draw his face back to mine. “Let’s just go.”
He hesitates, looking back at his father who sits there, casually sipping his wine.
“Please, Roman,” I say, because I can’t stay here any longer. Not when Richard is about two seconds away from telling Roman what I did.
I want to shove the fancy napkin in his smug mouth. I want to go back in time and scream at eighteen-year-old me for what she did. But mostly, I want Roman to take me home.
His beautiful face scrunches around the eyes. He wants to stay, to interrogate his father until he knows what happened, but the panic must show on my face because he looks down at me and his shoulders drop.
“Don’t send me another job offer and call off your PI,” he says, locking eyes with his dad one last time. “I’m done.” Then he twines his fingers through mine and draws us away from the man who just threatened me.
A shiver wracks my body as we step outside. The cool night air biting at my exposed back. I’m surprised I can feel it given how numb I’ve gone.
Roman shrugs off his jacket and slides it over my shoulders. He brushes my hair back from my face and tilts my chin up. “What happened? Did he hurt you?”
I hug the lapels of his jacket around me and shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Tears sting my eyes. I refuse to let Richard Banks blackmail me, which means I need to tell Roman what I did six years ago. I should say it now, rip it off like a band-aid, but I can’t bring myself to form the words.
I’ve loved Roman for so long it’s hard to remember a time I didn’t. But after that party on the beach, I never thought we would happen.
I grieved the loss of him that night, and every night after that, curled up in bed in hostels with sticky floors and thin walls. When I tell him what I did he won’t look at me the same. He’ll have undisputable proof that I am not the good person he thinks I am. And maybe it’s not fair, but I waited years to call Roman mine, and I just want to have this, to haveus, for a little longer. “Please, Roman. Just take me home.”
Chapter Thirty
Roman
Lola, get your ass down from there right now.
Relax. It’s just water.
Water is as hard as concrete if you land on it wrong.
Guess I better land right then.
- Conversation between Lola, age 17 and Roman, age 24
Lola is not okay.She’s gone white as the snow that covers the beach every winter and she’s doing everything she can not to look me in the eye.
My father said something, I know he did, and I plan to make her tell me exactly what so I can fix it. Except the second I open the passenger door for Lola, Mase launches up from where I left him spread across the backseat.
“Lola,” he shouts, his eyes lighting up like a ten-year-old boy at Christmas. “You’re here!” He stretches his arms out wide. “My baby sister.”
