Rooter (Double H Romance) (5 page)

We come to a railroad track and he slows way down in an obvious attempt not to jostle me too much. Rooter looks out of place behind the wheel of a car. Especially in my grandma-esque two thousand and four Toyota Camry. “Well, let me tell you, first hand, they’re not all rumors.” He shoots me a stern look, trying to convey a message.

“Is that what you meant when you said,” I raise my left hand to make a quote, “Consider yourself warned?”

He looks back to the road. “That’s part of it.” 

“If you’re so bad, why are you helping me?”

Chapter 5
Another Argument

Rooter hesitates, lets out a deep breath and his shoulders sag. “I don’t know.”

“I have a hard time believing you do anything without a reason.”

He shakes his head infinitesimally and raises an eyebrow. “You’re perceptive, you know that?”

I lean in his direction, ignoring the searing pain it causes. “So what’s your reason for helping me?”

He pulls over and turns to me with a conflicted expression. “Fuck it,” he throws his right hand in the air, “here goes. I’ve been watching you since I moved in three years ago,” he admits.

My eyes go wide and my breath catches.
Holy shit. He’s been watching me for three years?

“The first time I saw you,” he continues, “was when you thrashed the girl across the street.”

He’s referring to Janelle. She rents the house across the street from us. There’s no parking on her side of the street, so when she moved in she claimed the spot in front of our house. Miranda parked there one day and Janelle went off. A fight ensued and poor Miranda, unsurprisingly, was on the losing end, so I stepped in and ended it. A quick left hook and a knee to her nose was all it took.

“The second time I saw you, you came to help Mrs. Frank in the garden. You had the face of an angel.”

I gape at him in total disbelief.

“I watched as you came and went, visiting the Frank’s. You washed their cars and helped around the house. But the day you moved in I decided to learn more about you.”

I can tell there’s more he wants to say, but he stops there, allowing me to process the information.

“You watch me?”

“More than you watch me.” 

Shit! He knows. 
I stare at him, mouth agape. Without another word, Rooter puts the car in drive.

Rooter pulls into the Urgent Care parking lot, parks, and shuts off the engine. He turns to me with a mixture of sadness and worry etched into his face. “Sophie,” his voice is so gentle, “I wasn’t kidding when I said I know a lot about you.” He turns in his seat to face me. “I know about your childhood. About your mom. About how you left home after she put a gun to your head.” He pauses long enough that I think he’s done, but then speaks again, softly. “I know about the rape.”

Tears pool in my eyes and a lump forms in my throat. He knows about the worst moments of my life. My chest aches. How does he know all these things? More importantly, what else does he know? The pain in my ankle takes a backseat to the wave of emotion I’m experiencing. “You know a lot about me.”

He nods. “You’re like a walking contradiction. So strong, and yet so frail.”

With those words, it seems he understands me better than anyone. I wipe a tear away with the back of my hand.

“Now are you scared?” He asks.

“No.” I should be. A normal person would be.

Rooter shakes his head, gets out, walks to my door and helps me out as gently as possible. He lifts me into his arms and carries me to the Urgent Care entrance.

“How can I be afraid of you when all you do is help me?”

An X-ray confirms my ankle isn’t broken, but severely sprained. The doctor wraps it, prescribes Vicodin for the pain and recommends RICE: rest, ice, compression, and elevation. I can’t work for two weeks.

I hobble to the car on crutches with Rooter at my side. We haven’t spoken since we walked into the Urgent Care facility. The silence is awkward as he pulls out of the parking lot. I start to say something, anything, when his phone rings.

“Yeah,” he snaps into the phone. “I’m tied up right now. I can be there in an hour.”

He hits a manhole which sends a shooting pain to my already throbbing ankle and I lean my head back and grimace. He turns to me and mouths he’s sorry.

“I’ll call when I’m on my way,” he says to the caller and hangs up the phone.

“I never knew sprained ankles hurt this bad. Miranda had one once, and I thought she was such a wuss.”

He laughs. “A wuss?”

We both laugh. I love the sound of his. It has a higher pitch than that of his speaking voice. The laughter is a pleasant departure from the awkward silence.

Rooter pulls into the pharmacy parking lot and turns to me. “Where’s your script? I’ll go in and get it.”

“I’m not filling it.”

He faces me, incredulous. “What? Why?”

“I’ll just take ibuprofen.”

“Ibuprofen won’t touch that.” He points at my foot.

I slouch and gaze into my hands. I know the ibuprofen won’t work, but I don’t have insurance and money is a finite resource for me.

“Give me the script.” He snaps his fingers.

“I can’t afford it,” I mutter, feeling helpless.

“Sophie, you need the pills. Give me the script.”

 I shake my head. “I can’t let you buy my medicine.”

“Give. Me. The. Script.”

I gape at him, on the verge of tears. “You barely know me,” I say and then remember he actually does know me pretty well. “Well, I barely know you. You’re not paying for my prescription.”

He yanks my purse away and takes out the prescription.

“Rooter, no!”

I watch as he jogs into the pharmacy. I’d run after him if I could. All I can do is sit, stewing and biting my nails. I appreciate his willingness to help me, but I also value my independence, greatly. His taking pity on me over my lack of money is embarrassing.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s back in the car and hands me the bag.

I must pay him back. “How much was it?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He starts the car and backs out of the space.

My jaw drops. “I want to pay you back.”

“Sophie, I said don’t worry about it.” The stern tone of his voice tells me this conversation is over.

“Thank you.” I hold up the bag. “Again.”

He shrugs. “No problem.”

I watch with veneration as Rooter drives, careful to avoid any bumps in the road. I’ve never seen him drive a car. He owns a truck, but rarely drives it. I doubt he’s this cautious when he does. He holds the steering wheel with his left hand and rests his right hand on his leg. When he turns the radio on, it comes on blaring. Rooter jumps, almost hits his head on the roof, and swears before turning it down.

I cackle. I like my music loud and I’d forgotten to turn the radio down last time I drove. My CD of choice, a former boy bander turned solo act, is playing.

Rooter eyes me, unimpressed. “Seriously?”

“It’s a good song,” I protest.

He puts the radio on and turns it to the local hard rock station and bobs his head to the music. “Now this is good music.”

“It is.”

“You like this?” He gapes at me.

“I’m nondiscriminatory when it comes to music.”

The right corner of his lip rises and he nods once as though he’s taking in another new tidbit of who I am.

When the song finishes and the station goes to commercial, I turn the down the volume. “This makes three times you’ve helped me.”

Rooter shrugs, acting as though it’s no big deal.

But it is. Especially since his confession. I get an idea. “Since you know so much about me, it’s only fair you tell me a little about yourself.”

A moment passes, and he glances at me, unsure. “You don’t want to know me, Sophie. Take my word for it.”

“Yes, I do.”

Another moment passes.

“I’m waiting.” I purse my lips.

“Give it up, Sophie,” he groans.

“If you can find out things about me, I can do the same.”

He laughs. “Go ahead. Maybe you’ll learn something that’ll convince you to stay away from me.”

A wave of anger and exasperation come over me. “Obviously that’s not what you want.”

“It’s what’s best for you.”

“But it’s not what you want,” I challenge.

He looks at me, deflated, and shakes his head and looks back at the road. The muscles in his forearm flex as he squeezes the steering wheel. “Fuck.”

“I’ll decide what’s best for me. All I’m asking is to get to know you.”

“Sophie, I’m a bad guy.” He clenches his jaw.

“You keep saying that, but I beg to differ. You came to my defense after Mike tried to attack me. You took me to the doctor today and paid for my prescription. Bad guys don’t do things like that.”

We’re a block from my house when he slams on the breaks and pulls over. The vein in his forehead protrudes and his face is red. His irritation is obvious and yet, I still see gentility.

“What is the matter with you?” He snaps and throws his hands up in frustration. “How are you not freaked the fuck out right now? I’ve basically admitted that I’ve been stalking you for three years. I’m a fucking one percenter, Sophie! Any other girl would run in the opposite direction, terrified.”

He has a point. But it doesn’t change the fact I’m not scared. Even I don’t understand it. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He leans his head against the headrest, rubs his denim covered thighs and exhales. A moment later he puts the car in drive and pulls away. Not another word is spoken as we make our way to my house.

Rooter takes my purse and the prescription bag before helping me out of the car, taking care not to jostle me too much. Once at my front door, he hands me my keys so I can unlock it. When the door is open I reach for my purse and pills, but he motions for me to go inside.

“What happened,” Miranda says and jumps up when she sees me. Her eyes twitch to Rooter when she sees him come in behind me.

“It’s a bad sprain,” he informs her.

“Why didn’t you call me?” She asks me and looks at Rooter again.

“It happened really fast,” I explain and shuffle to the sofa. “Rooter was there when it happened.”

“Where?” She asks.

“In the front yard on my way to work.”

“She needs a glass of water to take her pills,” Rooter tells her.

“Sure,” she says, looking surprised, and walks to the kitchen.

Rooter takes my crutches and helps me onto the couch.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You gonna be okay here?” He looks toward the kitchen where Miranda is.

“Yeah, Miranda will help me.”

“What’s your number?” He asks and pulls out his phone. I tell him and he programs it into the phone. “I’ll text you with mine so you’ll have it if you need anything.”

“You don’t want me to know you, but you’re giving me your number so I can call you for help?” My phone pings from within my purse.

His lip twitches. “I’m aware of the irony, but I want to make sure you have the help you need.”

“I’m sorry, where’s the bad boy persona you keep warning me about?” I joke.

He rolls his eyes. “I gotta go,” he says when Miranda appears before us.

I give him a rueful smile. “Thanks, again.”

“See ya, Sophie.” He turns and leaves without acknowledging Miranda.

Miranda hands me a glass of water with a questioning eye. “You two friends now?”

I open the pill bottle and dispense one into my hand. “I’m not sure.”

“Not sure?”

I pop a Vicodin into my mouth and wash it down with water. “He thinks I’m better off not knowing him.”

Miranda crosses her arms. “I think he’s right.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m getting really tired of people telling me what’s best for me.”

“He’s in a biker gang that does bad shit, Soph. You 
are
 better off not knowing him.”

“He’s also a guy who has come to my rescue, three times now. And while you were in the kitchen getting my water, he gave me his number in case I need any more help. So you’ll have to excuse me for disagreeing.”

“I’d bet the only reason he’s helping you is because he wants in your pants.” She taps her foot the exact way Loraine used to do when she was unhappy about something.

“If that was true, he wouldn’t tell me I’m better off not knowing him.”

She shakes her head. “You’re hopeless.”

I slam the glass down splattering water all over the coffee table. I grab a dirty paper towel from the end table to wipe up the mess. “What does that mean?”

“That guy is bad news.”

I feel my pulse in my forehead. “That guy has a name.”

“What kind of name is Rooter, anyway?”

I throw my head back and sigh. “Leave it alone, Miranda. Please.”

“Fine. Do what you want. But mark my words,” she points toward Rooter’s house, “that guy, Rooter, is trouble. If you get involved with him, it’s going to lead to trouble.”

Miranda stalks out of the room. She means well with her concern, but she needs to chill the hell out. She’s my best friend. I like Rooter and I want to talk to her about him the way normal best friends would. I want to tell her how it felt in his arms when he carried me and describe to her the look in his eyes when he told me he knew about my past. I want her to share my excitement with me. It’s not like she hasn’t dated her fair share of bad guys. She’s being a total hypocrite.