Page 60 of Roughing the Player
He hits P1, the visitors’ parking lot. “I’ll drive. We’ll use my SUV.”
“My car—”
—will be fine staying here overnight.”
They have pretty good security in this building, but I’m not leaving it behind. “Brock—”
He jams his hand into his front jeans pocket, probably to retrieve his keys. “Your car’s too small for me, Ellie.”
He would bring that up now.
“And you only have a one-car garage. We can’t both park in it, and I’m not leaving a souped-up Outlaws’ Porsche Cayenne on the street. Or here for that matter.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. Why am I finding it hard to breathe? I grab the handrail to keep from shaking. I hate all that is happening. I hate not being in control.
Stepping into me, he cups my cheeks. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Is it?” My voice has grown breathless, as it so often does when I’m around him.
“I’ll make sure of it, sweet girl.” He brushes his lips against mine.
His kiss calms me, soothes me. I want more. But the doors open to the P1 level, and there’s no time.
As we exit the elevator, he curls his hand around mine. “We can talk on the way.”
My shoulders snap rigid once more.
Strangely enough, once we’re underway, he remains silent. Maybe he changed his mind about talking. Or maybe he’s thinking about what to say. Either works for me since it’s given me a chance to find a measure of peace.
“I want to see our daughter.”
Ah, he was figuring out how to phrase things. “Well, you’re going to get your wish. She’s home.”
He briefly takes his eyes off the road to glance at me. “I want to help support her. Financially. I figure I owe about ten—no, that can’t be. How old is she?”
“Twelve. She just turned twelve.” One of the few outright lies I told him.
“I owe you twelve years’ worth of child support.”
“You don’t have to.” I blurt out, even though I’m totally wrong.
“Yes, I do, Ellie. I want to do this. I need to do this. For her sake as well as mine.”
He’s right. Morally and legally, he should pay. It’s just, once he does, she won’t be all mine. A part of her will belong to him. But then, it always has. I just refused to acknowledge it.
Rather than respond, I stare out the window wondering how everyone at home is coping. I never wanted this to turn into a three-ring circus. I tried so hard to avoid a scandal. All to no avail. “They’re not going to stop, are they?”
“Who?”
“The paparazzi, the media.”
He drops one of his big hands over mine and squeezes. “They will. Once we work things out, they’ll have nothing to talk about, and they’ll move on to the next story.”
My gaze cuts to him. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
He should. He’s lived through enough notoriety to know.
