“Here.” I reached into the freezer and grabbed an ice pack, then wrapped it in a kitchen towel.
I froze when I turned and found his green eyes focused on me, waiting as if he expected me to treat his injury.
Carefully, I lifted his sleeve and rested the pack against the bruised area. He hissed in a pained breath but otherwise gave no indication it hurt.
He was so warm and solid against me. Smelled so good. I closed my eyes, soaking in the moment.
“Are you okay, Juliet?” His raspy voice broke the spell.
The concern in his voice caught me off guard. “Tired.” I forced a smile. “I got whacked in the head with a volleyball in gym.”
That same fierce protectiveness I’d witnessed earlier resurfaced. “Who did it?”
“It was my fault, I wasn’t paying attention.” I dropped my gaze to his shoulder. “I got distracted by someone peeking in the door.”
He chuckled softly. “Busted.”
His warm hand covered my chilled one. “I think I’m all better. Thank you.”
Too bad I wasn’t ready to let him go.
Chapter Six
Roman
The first time I tried to kiss Juliet, I made her cry.
I slipped the ice pack out of her hand and tossed it on the kitchen counter. No one in my life had ever shown me as much concern as this girl I barely even knew. Kindness in response to my pain felt so foreign.
Maybe I didn’t have any experience with love, but something big I’d never felt before settled in my chest.
Her hands were chilly and I took them in mine, pulling her closer.
“Thank you.”
She stared up at me with those big eyes; I still hadn’t decided if they were teal or turquoise. Whatever the color, it was now my favorite shade of blue.
“You’re welcome.”
I might not have had years of experience to draw from, but I knew the moment demanded something.
My hands cupped her cheeks, angling her head so I could lean down and finally taste her lips.
The briefest warm, shivery sensation brushed against my lips before she jerked away.
“Roman,” she whispered.
Obviously, I’d read the situation completely wrong.
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
Tears shone in her eyes and dread crawled through my chest. Everything in me wanted to protect her, not upset her.
“It’s not you. I’m sorry.” The anguish in her voice killed me.
I rubbed my thumb over her cheek. “No, I’m sorry. I’m—”
Outside, a car door slammed and her eyes widened with fear. “You have to go. I’m not supposed to have boys in the house.”
“Shit. Yeah. Okay.”
I scooped up my bag and she pushed me onto the back porch, locking the door behind us. She shoved me onto a bench and threw herself into the chair across from me. Before one “what the fuck” left my mouth, someone clomped up the porch steps.
“Juliet? What you doin’ out here, girl?” a gruff voice asked.
I turned and took in the short, stocky man who must be Juliet’s uncle.
I may not have been the smartest kid in any class, but I’d met enough people to develop a bit of intuition about them. And Juliet’s uncle gave me the fuckin’ creeps.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked with the least welcoming smile possible.
I stood and held out my hand, hoping manners might erase whatever notions he was forming about me.
“Roman Hawkins, sir.”
“Roman’s new in school,” Juliet said, scrambling to stand beside me. “We share a few classes.”
The older man grunted and shook my hand. “Jared Samson.” He gave Juliet a pointed look. “Your aunt will be home soon, Jules. You need to help her with dinner. Say goodbye to your guest.”
I wanted to punch him in the throat for the disrespectful way he spoke to his niece, but I didn’t think it would help the situation.
“Yes, sir. I was just leaving. Good to meet you,” I said, trying to force something that sounded polite into my voice. I wasn’t about to do anything that might keep me away from Juliet.
Under her uncle’s watchful eye, I faced Juliet. “See you tomorrow.”
Her cheeks were bright pink and she kept her hands clasped in front of her. “Yup.”
It was awkward as hell with her uncle standing in my way, but I managed to get past him without knocking one of us off the steps.
I glanced back at Juliet once before jogging down the street and turning the corner.
Chapter Seven
Roman
One of the counselors met me at the front door when I walked into the group home.
I still wasn’t used to the place. The constant noise. The way it smelled. Institutional like all the others but still unique. Discount Lysol instead of the real thing maybe.
“How did your first day go?” he asked. “Stay out of trouble?”
“More or less.”
He tilted his head, not liking my non-answer. I hadn’t figured out this dude yet, so I wasn’t sure if honesty would keep me out of trouble or get me sent to a new facility.
From the moment I landed in the foster care system, it felt like I’d been handed a lottery ticket to a game I’d never win.
“It’s always hard for the kids from here,” he said, almost sounding sympathetic. “But we didn’t get any calls from the school, so that’s encouraging.”
Thanks to Juliet. If she hadn’t vouched for me, I bet I’d be stuffing my Hefty bag and waiting on the front porch right about now.
“Go on up and do your homework. Dinner prep starts at five-thirty.”
“Thanks.”
And that was the extent of my counseling for the day. Suited me fine. After years of dealing with sympathetic and unsympathetic counselors, therapists, social workers, teachers, and other appointed do-gooders, I was all talked out. Any feelings had long ago been stuffed down deep in my rotted soul in order to survive.
I’d worked my way to “level two” in the house, which meant I didn’t need the constant supervision of the house monitors, and I intended to keep it that way. Leaving the door open every time I had to take a piss got tedious. And it was really hard to jerk off in the shower when you had someone asking what was taking so long every five seconds.
“Hey, Pip,” I greeted my roommate and tossed my frayed backpack on the bed.
Foster homes were required to give every child over the age of three their own room. In the few foster homes I’d been dropped off at, that usually meant an attic or basement room. Dark, cold—or hot—and far away from the rest of the family.
Didn’t really help you feel welcomed.
In group homes, I’d lived by myself, had a roommate, or been crammed with up to three other kids in a space the size of a broom closet.
As long as no one touched me or tried to crawl into bed with me, I’d ceased caring who I shared space with a long time ago.
Phillip Plant was a pipsqueak of a kid. I dubbed him Pip for short and he seemed pleased by the nickname. He’d only been in the system long enough to develop a healthy fear of everyone and everything. Little shit almost stabbed me with a pair of sewing scissors the first night, when the last-shift counselor showed me to my room without informing Pip he had a new bunkmate.