"You've been ignoring my calls, texts, emails."

"I needed a break. Football has been intense, and school is only getting crazier the closer I get to graduation. And I know you still want me to marry Shelly and didn't want to argue about it anymore." His eyes ignited some at that.

"Damn right I want this marriage." He took a step closer, but at six foot three, I towered above him. "Look, I need you to marry her. I need to keep the business between the two families."

My father was acting strange. I could sense the desperation in his voice, see it in his stance, the way he was constantly running his hand through his hair. My suspicions were through the roof. Something other than the marriage was clearly bothering him, but hell if I could guess what. My daddy would never tell me if I asked. No way would he ever show weakness in front of me, but I had to try.

"Tell me why are you pushing this so much," I demanded, seeing the anger in his tight features at my line of questioning. That was one of many things that were forbidden-questioning my father's instructions. Curling his lip with annoyance, he prodded a finger to my chest.

"Do what you're told. Carry out the duty we kept you for!" And there it was. The not-so-subtle reminder that I wasn't ever wanted.

I held my ground. "You know what, old man, screw your arranged marriage. Nothing has changed. Nothing will change. Give it up already."

His rage took hold and the man I'd grown up with showed his ugly head, fake politeness forgotten as he gripped my shirt in his fists. "You insolent shit! Why must you defy me at every turn!" His eyes were skittish and that only confirmed my suspicions. Something bigger had to be behind this. He hadn't been this physical in years.

I didn't fight him, but bit back, "Because I don't want this life for myself. I don't want to be you!"

Leaning up to my ear, he said in a low voice, "You were never good enough for this family!" and on instinct, he drew back a hand but stopped, clearly trying to restrain himself from his old form of punishment. I could fight back now that I was bigger, stronger, and the old bastard knew it. I was seventeen the last time I'd let him hit me, but he never touched me in public. There was no way he would risk his perfect reputation. But here he was, lashing out in broad daylight, his composed persona unraveling.

"Do it!" I growled, tipping my chin in offering.

"Don't tempt me, boy!" He threatened, and I only smiled in response. I'd learned that if we got a good hit out of the way, it would buy me a few weeks of quiet. I needed a few weeks of quiet.

Desperately needed it.

I pushed at his chest and shouted, "Do it! Hit me! I know that's what you want!" His lips tightened as he decided what to do, so I smiled again, really goading him, and that was the moment he snapped. He pulled back his fist and in seconds it collided with my face.

He immediately dropped his hand and, walking backward, assured, "I won't stop until you are walking down that fucking aisle. It is imperative that you marry Shelly Blair! Imperative!" And with that he jumped back in his Bentley and drove off.

8.

The blood from my lip dripped down my chin, but I let it. My cheek throbbed and my jaw ached, but it reminded me why I couldn't marry Shelly, couldn't live this life forever, eventually turning to liquor to cope like my momma and being trapped in the suffocating world of society dinners and duties.

I headed straight for the nearest tree and hit the bark until my hands grew numb, my muscles ached, and blood spilled from my knuckles. The heaviness of my breaths exhausted my body and I slumped to the floor, staring unseeingly at the grass before me.

Fuck! I couldn't keep living in this constant hell, this darkness.

How the hell had everything all gone to shit so quickly? I could feel the weight of it all pressing down on me-my folks, football, school-and I could barely breathe or think. I wanted to curl into a ball right here on the ground, not really caring who would find the great Bullet Prince reduced to a bleeding, hurting mess.

I heard the sound of a dry twig snapping next to me, and when I lifted my head, Molly stood before me, hands shaking, tears in her eyes, whispering, "Romeo, God..."

She looked like a friggin' angel.

Dropping to her knees beside me, her golden-brown eyes softened in sympathy. She set to cleaning up my cuts, but none of it really registered; my mind was lost in a thick fog.

"Does this hurt?" she stopped to ask, but I could only manage to shake my head.

She edged closer still, her small body snug between my legs, and she pressed a pink scrap of material to my lip. Still, I could only stare.

"Swill your mouth out, Rome. That blood can't taste too good." She handed me the bottle, and I did as she said, spitting the water onto the ground, the dried soil laced with red.

Then she surprised me, gently taking my hand and sitting beside me. As I stared at her small fingers wrapped around mine, I realized this girl was turning into everything I needed but never dreamed of being able to get. On the surface, she was my exact opposite, but deep down, she was getting me like no one ever had before.

Feeling her hands squeeze mine in support, I snapped out of my daze and croaked, "Hey, Mol."

"Hey, you."

"How much did you see?" I asked, dreading the answer.

Moving in closer, her arm brushing mine, and tucking her head into my neck, she replied, "Enough."

Someone had finally witnessed my daddy in action, and, feeling like I was eight again, I dropped my head against the tree, feeling humiliated that she'd seen me like that, still stupidly a victim to my father.

"Who was the man in the Bentley?"

"My daddy," I admitted after a few seconds of silence.

"Your father?" That shocked her, and those eyes tensed with anger, her body curving toward me protectively. That was definitely a first. I couldn't speak at the gesture, a moment of happiness seizing my voice. I'd never had anyone comfort me before, never had anyone care enough to comfort me before. Being around Molly made me happy... Fuck... She actually made me happy.

I kept her hand tight in mine, not wanting to let this feeling go.

"You okay?" she asked again.

"No," I confided, the tears threatening to fall.

"You want to talk about it?" I absolutely did not, so shook my head.

"Does he hit you a lot?"

I decided to just go with it. She'd seen more than anyone else ever had; no use in pretending otherwise. "Don't get a chance much anymore. He was pissed with something I'd done. He called me to meet him and... Well, you saw the rest."

Shifting in front of me, she asked, "What was so bad that he'd strike you like that?"

I wanted to reply with the truth-because I was a blight on their perfect lives, a reminder of something they'd rather forget-but I was never going go there, never ever going to reveal that, so I simply said, "Money, disappointment, not being the dutiful son. The usual. He's never gone that far in public before, though. I've never seen him so pissed."

"But you're his son! How dare he treat you like that? What the hell have you done to deserve to be punched?"

I wasn't going to go there.

Sitting back in frustration, but accepting that she wasn't getting an answer, Molly changed the subject, asking about the Arkansas game. I confessed that I hadn't been playing well.

"I've never had such a bad start to a season in my entire life. My senior year, the one in which I'll enter the draft, and it's all going to hell in a hand basket."

"Why is it going so bad?" Her eyebrows were pulled down, her thick frames slipping a fraction down her nose.

Pushing them back up into position, I revealed, "Because I can't complete even one of my passes. I'm letting the team and fans down. My parents won't back the fuck off over Shelly-you just witnessed my daddy's insistence on that issue. She's being a bigger leech than normal and I'm constantly fighting her off. My head is all over the place, I can't sleep or get focused, and thinking about a certain English girl keeps me up every night. Every fucking night. She's plaguing my dreams."

Needing to feel her touch, I laid her hand against my cheek, the contact calming me right down.

"Yeah, I know what that's like." Her answer was breathy, telling.

It was time I told her some home truths. "I thought about our last meeting nonstop while I was away."

"Yeah. Me too. It's been... different to have my head filled with a certain Bama hottie and not Dante, Descartes, or Kant." I wanted to laugh at her cute as hell accent and thank the Lord that she'd been thinking about me too.

"You think I'm a hottie?" I asked jokingly, nudging her arm.

"You're all right." Her nose crinkled as she smiled and that blush crept up her cheeks. I'd gone from hating the world to feeling on top of it.

"Where were you going at this time of morning when you saw this hottie getting a beatdown?" I needed to move from this tree, and I sure as fuck wasn't going to class. I wanted to be wherever she was, and I pretty much always did what I wanted.

"Rome-" She went to say something, but I cut her off.

"Answer the damn question, Shakespeare."

"The library. I have notes I need to write up for Professor Ross. She has an office there where I can work undisturbed. I saw... what happened with you and your daddy and thought you needed me more than the exciting world of academia does right now."

Standing, dragging her with me, I announced, "Let's go."

"Where to?" She frowned in confusion.

"The library. I'm going to help you. We can't let the world of academia down now, can we?" I lifted her bag off the floor and placed it on her shoulder.

"Romeo... are you sure you don't want to go home or do something else? We could talk more if you'd like. Whatever you need."

Jesus, talking about my home life was so not what I wanted. Hell, what I really wanted was to take Molly back to my room and not bother surfacing until I'd had my fill, but I wasn't sure that suggestion would go down well.

Pulling on her hand, I said, "No. We're going to go to the library and I'm going to help you with your paper."

"You're going to help me with philosophy?" I should have been insulted by her disbelief, but that air of arrogance she always had when it came to her studies just made me want to prove her wrong.

Turning her around and wrapping my arms around her shoulders, I whispered, "Hey, just because I'm a jock don't mean I'm stupid. For your information, I'm acing that class. I may be able to show you a thing or two."

I let her go and quoted, "For example, Immanuel Kant was a real piss-ant who was very rarely stable."

Letting out an excited giggle, she sang, "Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar who could think you under the table."

"Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle, and Hobbes was fond of his dram." I gestured for her to finish.

"And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart. I drink, therefore I am.'"

She was British after all. Wasn't watching Monty Python like a rite of passage or some shit? Her huge grin told me I'd just racked me up some points in her book.

"So you're a Monty Python fan?" she asked excitedly.

"Well, you can't study philosophy and not be familiar with 'Bruces' Philosophers Song.'" Truth was, one of my first philosophy professors in sophomore year used to play it all the damn time. After that, I watched every film they'd made.

"I agree, but I never pegged you for a British comedy nut."

"It's Python," I said simply. I held out my hand. "So let's go. I surprised you once with my philosophy knowledge. I'm pretty sure I can do it again."

"Whatever, you're twenty-one. I'm still only twenty and I'm already on my master's. I doubt there's anything you can show me, superstar. It's my area of expertise."

There she went with that mouth again. Grabbing her hand, I pulled her to my chest, gripping her tight, and leaned in to whisper, "Maybe not in philosophy, but I can sure as hell show you other things, Mol-in my area of expertise."

"And what's that?" she asked, and I smiled, feeling her heart beating like crazy in her chest.

I ran my lips down the skin of her neck, kissing her pulse and teasing, "Much more... pleasurable things than work."

I caught her pause in breath, and, satisfied that I'd rattled her nerves, dragged her with me. "Come on, megabrain, let's go research and get your dirty mind outta the gutter."

That'd teach her to try me.

We worked in the library for hours. Not once did she push me to talk about my father, or about anything else; her mind was completely focused on her task. She kind of reminded me of Rain Man when she worked, totally immersed in her own little world.

"Come on, Shakespeare, I'll walk you home," I finally said when Molly yawned for the fifth time in the space of ten minutes and my ass had begun to ache from sitting in one spot too long.

"Yeah, okay." She agreed tiredly, and we set off out of the library, only a few students still pulling all-nighters on the near-empty floors.

The campus was pretty quiet as we walked down the main path, and happy that no one was around, I reached down, taking Molly's hand in mine. At first her fingers stiffened at the action and she flashed a questioning look at me, but seeing my refusal to let go, she just let it be. It felt right having her close, and I liked that if anyone spotted us, it looked like she was mine. That sentiment sat better with me than it should have. I was Rome Prince. I didn't do commitment with chicks, but Molly being on my arm just felt really fucking perfect.

Halfway home, Molly asked, "Rome?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you have fun when you were away in Arkansas?"

That question caught me off guard, and I glanced down at her head hanging low, wondering where the hell this conversation was heading.

"Not really. Truth be told, I couldn't wait to get back." I pulled her to face me, trying to get a read on her mood. "What you getting at?"

Kicking her toes into the grass beside us, she glanced up at me and said shyly, "Cass brought up some pictures of the after-game party you attended, on Facebook."

Frowning, I asked, "Yeah, so?"

"Well, I saw what some of the guys were doing. You know, shots... Beer... Women... I didn't see any of you, but..." She trailed off.

Placing a finger beneath her chin, I forced her to meet my eyes again. "You want to know if I fucked anyone?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Well, I wouldn't have put it quite so crassly, but... yeah, I suppose I do. I know it's none of my business, so feel free to tell me to bugger off if I've gone too far." Her eyes fell to the ground again.

"Look at me," I instructed, and she did so guardedly. "Plenty of groupies made a pass at me. They always do. I don't really have to try too hard, Mol."