Snorting out a laugh, I flexed my bicep, catching Mol’s small, impressed gasp, and said, “I’m a f**king machine, Shakespeare. Popcorn’s no match for me!”
“Sorry, I forgot I was talking to the Bullet!” she quipped, but her words felt like a cold bucket of water being dumped on my head.
“Don’t,” I hissed, losing all humor.
“Allaaabbbaaammmmaaa!!! Get to your feet for your hometown quarterback, Romeo… ‘Bullet’… Prince! ‘There’s a bullet in the gun. There’s a fire in your heart. You will move all mountains that stand in your path…’” Molly was laughing as she sang that damn song the IT guys always played in Bryant-Denny whenever I was on the big screen, but all I felt was annoyed. She wasn’t getting the hint that I was serious.
Taking hold of her wrists, I pulled her forward until her eyes met mine and growled, “Quit it, Shakespeare. Fuck!”
Almost choking on her words, she sat back. “I’m only kidding. You don’t have to be so bloody grumpy with me.”
Shit. I hadn’t meant to be, but I hated that bastard name. Bullet, it was almost as bad as Romeo. I hated the football hype so damn much; it’d always just made shit at home that much worse.
Taking another look at Molly’s hurt face, I sighed. “I know, sorry, but I f**king hate all that shit. You don’t know how much. I don’t want to be the Bullet to you. You’re the first person to ever not be affected by all the football fame. To you… I just want to be Rome.”
Molly got me. She got I didn’t want to go into why the football fame bothered me so much, and moving us away from that uncomfortable topic, she asked, “So… MVP?”
“Yeah. Crazy considering I couldn’t hit a truck for the first half.”
How did I tell her that seeing her in the stands changed everything, without revealing too much about my feelings? How could I tell her she was the first person to ever pull through for me without having to explain my past and my folks?
I just couldn’t find the words. So instead, I just filled her in on the locker room talk. “The fans and team are pumped, saying it’s because of you. That you’re my good luck charm, all from that one sweet kiss.”
And then she flipped the f**k out, shooting to sitting position, fighting for breath and rubbing at her chest. It looked like she was having a damn heart attack.
“What? What’s wrong? What did I say?” I asked frantically.
Her eyes were as big as the f**king moon and she tried to speak but nothing came out. My heart took off beating too fast, so I held her hand, and watched as she calmed the heck down, color coming back to her pale face. I stared down at our joined hands in confusion, wondering what the f**k had just happened?
“What is it, Mol? Tell me.” I pushed, needing some explanation of why she just nearly collapsed.
Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’m sorry, it’s just something my Grandma used to say to me. It took me back to those days. I panicked. I-I just… I was just surprised when you said it. Of all the ways to say what you did, you quoted her word for word.”
“What did she say to you? What did I say?”
Smiling a broken smile, she said softly, “That I had sweet kisses. Grandma would say one sweet kiss from me would make any problem just that little bit easier.”
“I believe she might be right. She must have been a wise woman because that’s exactly what you did for me tonight at the game.”
“She was. She was everything to me.” Tears fell from her eyes as her fingers tightened against mine. “We used to say we were a matching set. When she died, she took half my soul with her. I don’t like to think of my past too much… It kills me to remember all that I’ve lost.”
I stayed silent. There are no words to comfort someone who’d lost those closest. So I just let her get it all out as I pressed her into my side, lying back against the bed, using my touch to keep her calm. Fuck. My touch had kept her calm.
“So you walked out of your own party?” Molly eventually asked as I stared at the ceiling, realizing she actually may be as f**ked up as me.
“You weren’t there.”
Molly shuffled her legs to face me and nervously asked, “Do I matter that much to you?”
I wanted to laugh in her face, convinced that if she only knew the severity of my obsession with her, she’d run for the f**king hills.
“Do you really not know?”
She shook her head no, so pushing her back into the mattress, I confessed, “I like the way you are with me. I like me when I’m with you. I feel like I could tell you anything, that I could bear my f**kin’ black soul. You make me feel… well… you know… You get me?” I was such a douche and evidently no good at all the romantic shit.
But a finger stroked down my cheek, and smiling so damn big, Molly said, “I get you, Romeo.”
We stayed that way for a while, just talking. She apologized for our showdown at the lecture, admitting that she was pissed at me after believing I’d slept with Shelly. I told her the truth, that I was done with everyone but her, and she seemed more than happy with that fact.
After a time, music began blaring from the backyard and it was clear that the party was only getting bigger. I didn’t complain, though, because Molly asked me to stay—only to sleep! she’d stated—and I couldn’t have felt happier.
Molly moved into bed, nervously biting her thumb and watching every move I made. When I got in bed beside her and that tight ass of hers began grinding into my cock, it took all my might to edge forward and whisper, “We need to try and sleep or things will get out of control. I only have so much restraint.”
“O-okay,” she whispered back, and I wrapped my arm around her waist as she tucked herself farther against me.
It felt so damn right.
“Night, Shakespeare,” I said quietly.
“Night, Romeo,” she replied, and I couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief.
She stiffened at my amusement, so I quickly explained. “I actually like the sound of my name on your lips. Something I never thought would happen. I think it’s the English accent. It sounds all proper, like the way Shakespeare intended. No one calls me Romeo, has ever called me Romeo. I don’t allow it. But weirdly, I like it when you do.”
I heard her exhale and felt her trying to turn and face me. For some reason I couldn’t let her, too overcome with emotion to have her meet my eyes, to see the demons I fought in my gaze. But when she whispered, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet; so Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d.” I felt like I couldn’t breathe. The memories, the pain that name stirred in me was too much.