Of course, Shawn set up the shoot while Evie’s away.
Of course, the bastard did.
What I don’t know for sure is whether my wife and my agent colluded together for me to be alone in this clusterfuck or not.
“Just a few more swipes, then you’ll be done,” the makeup artist assures me.
Sure, she’s been professional, but the way she’s obsessing over my bare skin gives me the fucking creeps.
First, it was an all over oil rub down. I don’t think I’ve ever even waxed The Lady so thoroughly. When she got a little too close to the baby makers, I nearly blacked out.
Next, the photographer wanted to create the illusion of sweat and dirt.
Which means misting with more oil and then…dusting.
I’m literally being dusted with some kind of dark powder.
So weird.
Wouldn’t it just be easier, not to mention more authentic, to send me out into the lush landscaping outside the building to roll around in the flower beds? Sweating isn’t really all that hard to pull off with the insane lighting in the studio.
“I love the tattoo on your chest,” the woman says conversationally. As if this whole process isn’t as disturbing for her as it is for me. “What does it say?”
I glance down, trying to figure out if the letters have somehow changed shape with all the makeup.
Nope.
Still looks the same to me.
“Evie.”
She peeks her head around from where she’s dusting my ass to gaze at my chest with narrowed eyes. “It’s a name? Really?”
What the fuck? “Yeah.”
“Is it in a different language? What script is that?”
Oh my God.
It never occurred to me most people can’t read some of the letters. All this time, and no one has realized what this tattoo means.
“It’s Greek.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, seemingly impressed. “I didn’t realize you were Greek.”
“I’m not. Evie is.”
She goes back to her work on my rear, clucking like a hen. “My friends will be so disappointed. We all thought it was something much cooler. Like a deeper meaning sort of thing.”
She was talking about me with her friends? Is it standard procedure to research the bodies of the people you’ll be making over before the shoot happens? Were they discussing ideas for improvement? The latest makeup techniques for recreating dirt?
“It has a deeper meaning to me.” I swallow down the familiar taste of failure on my tongue. “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t have had it permanently inked into my skin.”
She laughs like that’s the most stupid reason for getting a tattoo she’s ever heard. “I guess that explains the Miners tat, then. You played for them in college, right?”
Maybe if I had chosen to get that one, it would have meaning for me. Instead, that particular brand will always remind me of forced servitude and abuse.
One tattoo represents love, acceptance. The other is a constant reminder there are some truly disturbed people in this world.
I guess, in some ways, most of us wear scars left behind by others. Some are visible. Others are hidden.
This Miners tattoo matters, even if I didn’t put it on my body by choice.
And yet, I don’t want to assign it any meaning at all.
Only Evie has that kind of power, importance to me.
Her name over my heart matters.
This is my bite mark.
By choice.
The photographer’s assistant peeks her head in the door, eyeing me up and down in a way that makes me clutch the towel closer to my junk. “Five minutes. Are you almost done with him?”
The makeup artist chuckles as she tickles the brush along the backs of my thighs. “If you’re giving me five minutes, then I’m going to take all of them. You can’t rush perfection.”
“Amen to that,” the ogling woman mumbles under her breath, then clears her throat, returning her gaze to my face. “This should be the last set, then you’ll be free to clean up and go. Unless you’d like to stick around and view the proofs with me?”
Hell. No.
“I’m married,” I blurt.
The object of my panic doesn’t look convinced. “You aren’t wearing a wedding band. I’ve never seen you photographed with even a girlfriend since your NFL debut. Who’s the lucky woman?”
I point to Evie’s name on my chest. “Her.”
The assistant stalks toward me, studying the tattoo the same way her coworker did moments ago. “That’s a name? I always thought it was like those cool Chinese characters that represent a proverb.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Will you turn that damn thing off and go to sleep already?”
In all fairness to Davis, it’s almost midnight, tomorrow is our last day of training camp, and after two weeks of grueling practice in the summer heat, everyone on the team is exhausted and cranky.
I’m irritated, too, but not for the same reasons as my teammates.
Three weeks.
No Evie.
I haven’t even heard her voice.
In the interests of keeping her family out of our personal drama, she only checks in with me a few times a day via text. She’s worried about them eavesdropping on any actual in-person conversations.
Now, who feels like a dirty little secret?
Me.
I do.
And damn, this shoe is tight and ill-fitting on the other foot.
I’ve had more contact with her personal bodyguard in all this time.
His qualifications are ideal. I don’t question his capability to keep her safe, to spot a threat before she even knows it’s there.
But, those facts are not enough to keep me from likely annoying the shit out of him by checking up on her every chance I get.
Now just happens to be one of those times.
Falls: Everything still good?
Byers: All clear on the home front. Papageorgiou residence is secured. No signs of Mr. Sinclair today. Although, she did run into someone she referred to as an ex-boyfriend. He seemed nervous and twitchy. Thought I might have to intervene. Turns out his wif was waiting for him in the car and he was in a hurry. Now, for the love of God, it’s 3am. Go the fuck to sleep. You pay me to keep her safe. I’ll do my job. Or die trying.
Well, how the fuck am I supposed to sleep when he says shit like that?
“Falls. I’m giving you five minutes, then I swear on my mama’s grave, I will break your phone,” Davis grits out.
“Fine.” I tuck it under my pillow, feeling like even the picture of Evie on my home screen is better than not having her in bed with me at all.
I’m exhausted, but restless. Training camp has been great, by all accounts. Evie kicking my ass into gear over the summer helped, but I’m still not back to the physical condition I was in during my college days.
Still, I have more motivation to be great on the field than I ever have before.
I can’t let my wife down.
She wants to see the best quarterback in the world, so I’ll do my damnedest to give her that.
I stare up at the ceiling, missing Evie’s cloud bed. “Hey, Davis?”
He sighs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him spread eagle on the bed like he’s giving up any hope of sleep tonight, too. “What?”
“Do you know what the tattoo on my chest says?”
“Seriously? It’s your wife’s name, man. Why are you asking me stupid shit when we could be catching some z’s?”
Well, how the hell does he know what it says? Did I blab that, too, when I was a drunken idiot? “You can read Greek?”
“Naw. Khadijah is into culture and shit. She knows a couple different alphabets. I drew a pic of your tat and asked her to tell me what it said.”
That’s impressive…and also a little creepy.
“If I hounded my woman the way you keep tabs on yours, she would run for the hills. My woman needs her space. She’s gonna go out of her mind after I retire this year. I think she honestly likes it when I’m gone for a while.”
Oh, so now he wants to talk? What happened to going to sleep?
“Thank you for sharing, but why are you telling me any of this? What happened to your home, your wife, your rules?”
“You’re a quarterback, so you know how to read. You don’t seem to know when to push and when to pull, though. I guess that’s a defensive thing. You keep pulling at her the way you do and she’s going to chew off the leash. You’re back together. What are you so afraid of?”
Fear: we’re never going to get past keeping secrets.
I don’t want to hide anymore.
I want the whole world to know what matters to me.
I twist my wedding band around on my finger.
Maybe it’s time to start taking our deal public.