by Kennedy Ryan
“More than he cares about you?” Lo finishes for me.
“Yeah.” I hesitate before going on. “He was obsessed with me. I know that sounds self-absorbed or conceited or something, but it’s true.”
“I’ve seen his crazy, Bo. You don’t have to convince me.”
“He threatened to hurt August again if I didn’t stay away from him. He threatened to hurt you, too.”
“Me?” Lo touches her chest. “The hell. I’d like to see him try.”
“I told you before he knew your address by heart. Knew your schedule and where you worked in New York. I didn’t even know that.”
“I know.” Lo’s thick brows converge above the outrage in her eyes. “I just hate that he used me against you.
The walls feel like they’re closing in on me even discussing the invisible but very real chains Caleb used to hold onto me.
“Everyone who meant anything to me, he used against me, and he’d do it again and worse if he got the chance.” I shake my head. “Seeing me and August together—I just hope it doesn’t push him over the edge. That’s part of my hesitation, too.”
“You can’t live your life in fear of him, though.”
“Sometimes it’s the fear that keeps you alive, Lo. I learned a lot from this experience. I learned that people are really cavalier with other people’s lives.”
“What’s that mean?”
“They tell women to ‘just leave’, and they say ‘you’re so weak to stay.’” My words tumble out of me faster than I can process. “Yes, there are women who stay too long. Yes, there are women who accept abuse, confused that somehow it’s still love. That wasn’t me, but I knew that if I tried to leave and failed, he would kill me.”
Lo stares at me in silence for a few moments. I can tell she thinks I’m being melodramatic, and I have to make her understand.
“Seventy percent of domestic-abuse homicides occur when the woman tries to leave. That means that when a lot of these motherfuckers say ‘I’ll kill you if you leave me,’ they mean it.” A sob catches in my throat, but I shove it back down, determined to have my say with a strong, unwavering voice. “Imagine if I’d left and he got partial custody of Sarai. That monster having my daughter on the weekends? Never.”
“That wouldn’t have happened,” Lo says, but she sounds less certain than she did when we first began.
“Oh, yes, it would have. He’s rich, famous, has the best lawyers money can buy, and no prior offenses. Sports, especially at his level, is so insular, and they protect their own. I’ve seen it for myself. Behind every woman who comes out telling her story, there’s a line of officers, staff, coaches, and people who should have helped, who knew and did nothing.”
Hurt, outrage, and fury throw a tantrum inside of me. I pause to draw a calming breath before going on. “He wouldn’t have gotten more than a slap on the wrist, and that’s if anyone believed me.”
I gather my hair back from my face and link my hands behind my neck. It’s an impractical justice, a woman having to share custody with the man who tried to kill her because his parental rights should be protected.
“People have no idea what some women go through behind closed doors or what keeps them there.” I shake my head. “That was me, living a lie and getting beaten up by the truth until I found my way out. And I don’t know if I’ll ever really get over it.”
“You will.” Lo tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, and I flinch.
“See?” My laugh comes out slightly hysterical. “He used to do that. He’d push my hair behind my ear so gently, but with his gun.”
“Shit, Bo,” Lo says, anger and horror taking up arms in her expression.
“You know I still sleep curled at the edge of the bed because it’s the only way I can. I didn’t want our bodies touching while we slept.” Tears clog my throat, and a few escape my eyes no matter how much I will myself not to cry. “I didn’t want him that close when I was asleep, but he wouldn’t let me sleep anywhere else.”
“You need to talk to someone, babe,” Lo says.
“I am, actually. I do. I’ve been talking to a counselor at a women’s shelter here in the city, but can a therapist strip my mind of the memories? Of the nightmares? Sometimes I wake up thinking there’s a gun between my legs.”
“What the hell?”
“Yeah, he liked to put a gun to my vagina and make me choose between that and his dick.”
“That bastard.” Lo’s eyes harden, and her full lips thin. “Don’t worry. His is coming. His days are numbered.”
Lo has removed her braids and wears her hair’s natural texture in a close cap of curls dyed platinum that contrasts starkly with her complexion. She looks so different, but the same light that burned in her eyes when she confronted Caleb ignites now.
“Lo, what does that—”
“Mommy, potty,” Sarai says. She stands and crosses one little foot over the other.
God, she’s adorable. I’m not biased.
“Potty training,” I mutter, standing and taking Sarai by the hand and heading for the bathroom. “We’ll be back.”
Sarai’s all done and washing her hands when Lo yells from the front room. “Bo, you said August’s number thirty-three, right?”
The concern in her voice propels my heartbeat, and I rush back into the living room just in time to see a replay in slow-motion.
August and his teammate Kenan, the one they call Glad, go up for the rebound at the same time. Kenan is huge, a little taller than August. He’s several inches wider and thicker.
His elbow slams into August’s forehead at full force. With dread building in my belly, I watch August fall to the hardwood and stay there unconscious for several seconds.
“Oh my God, get up.” My insides knot. “Please, baby, get up.”
I don’t even question the endearment when it slips naturally out of my heart and past my lips. I’ve been fooling myself, guarding my heart with a porous shield, and August slipped right in.
His eyes open groggily and he tries to sit up, but his hand starts shaking violently, and he collapses back to the floor.
I cover my mouth and ball my fist up over my heart.
“He’s gonna be okay,” Lo assures me. “Look. He’s getting up.”
Correction. Kenan is pulling him up, and someone is walking him off the floor. He gives a little wave to the crowd and stumbles into the tunnel.
They show the play over and over again, and every time, I hurt a little more. I think about everything I told Lo, and it’s all true. I am afraid of how Caleb will respond when he finds out about August and me. The fears I hoped to leave behind still wake me at night drenched in a cold sweat. Seeing August go down like that, though, and not knowing how bad it is puts everything in perspective. Every day that we’re living, breathing, and in good health is a blessing, not promised. Understanding that, seeing him get hurt, makes me realize that I don’t want to go slow after all.
Not anymore.
41
August
Damn, my head hurts.
That’s what happens when Jolly the Big Ass Giant elbows you in the head.
My own teammate sidelined me. Not that it was Kenan’s fault. We were both going after the rebound and collided. He feels like shit and will probably come by as soon as the game is over. I’d love to be gone before then, but it’s not happening. “Concussion” is never anybody’s favorite word. I don’t need to be in the hospital, but I get it. When your whole body’s insured and a team pays you millions, they tend to take precautions. That doesn’t mean I’m not ready to go home.
I check my phone. No calls from Iris. Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she wasn’t watching the game. Or maybe she and Lotus, who’s visiting from New York, took Sarai to that park up the street. My finger is poised over her contact when the nurse pokes her head in.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. West.”
“No problem.” I force a smile. “What’s up?”
“You have a visitor,” she s
ays with a grin. “A pretty brunette.”
My heartbeat picks up, but I try not to look all overeager and shit. “Please send her in.”
I adjust the bed to a sitting position as the door eases open and a dark head peeks in. But the hair isn’t long and hanging in thick coils. It’s a bone-straight bob, and her golden skin glows from her afternoon tennis practice.
“Pippa,” I say, my tone flat and disappointed even to my own ears. “Come on in.”
“Don’t sound so happy to see me.” Pippa walks in and sits on the bed beside me.
“Sorry.” I rearrange my features into a pleased expression, though my face feels like wax. “Just the concussion probably.”
“I know.” She takes my hand and scoots a little closer on the hospital bed. “I saw.”
“I didn’t realize you were here in San Diego.” I want to pull my hand back, but I’ll give her a few minutes. We are friends.
“I was meeting with the team at Elevation.” She smiles brightly. “I’m signing.”
“That’s awesome.” I squeeze her hand. “Jared and company will take care of you.”
“And what about you?” Her voice drops, taking on a husky tone. “Will you take care of me, too?”
“Uh . . .” Is there a diplomatic way to say hell no?
“I’m here for the rest of the week. Maybe we can get together before I leave.”
“Uh . . .” I must have a concussion because I haven’t said more than “uh’ in the last two minutes. “Sure. Why not?” In my head, I hear Jared pimping me out at least for drinks until we have her signature on the dotted line.
She leans closer so her blouse droops, and I see the curve of her breasts. Don’t get me wrong—Pippa’s got a great body. She’s one of the top tennis players in the world. And the sex was good, but her light floral scent is all wrong. Her hair is jet black, missing the burnished streaks. Her lips are thin, not full and pouty and pink. She’s beautiful and just right for someone, but she’s not Iris. So she’s not right for me.
The door opens again, and another dark head peers around the corner. This is the one I was hoping for.
“Iris.” Everything brightens—the room, my voice, my smile, and I feel Pippa’s regard sharpen on my face. “Come on in.”
“Oh, I . . .” She flicks a glance between Pippa and me, darting down to our clasped hands on the hospital bed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
I snatch my hand from Pippa, and she looks at me, wearing hurt on her face. I haven’t given Pippa any reason to think we’ll be anything again. I need to be kind, but clear that we are not happening.
“You’re not interrupting.” I gesture to the other side of the bed. “Come on and sit down.”
She walks over to the bed with dragging steps, glancing at Pippa’s expensive clothes and the shiny diamond studs in her ears. Pippa is gorgeous. Of Asian descent, her dark hair falls straight to frame the high slant of her cheekbones. She’s beautiful, but she’s not my Iris.
Yes, I think of her as mine. I will have no trouble telling her so once we get past “slow.” Hell, I’m hers, too, whenever she wants to claim me. Over the last few weeks, though we haven’t even kissed, we’ve been building something.
I guess? I think? I hope?
“Sorry. Blame my rudeness on the concussion.” I gesture to the curious girl beside me. “Pippa Kim, this is Iris DuPree. Pippa’s signing with Elevation, and Iris works with our team.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Ms. Kim,” Iris says, her enthusiasm genuine. She really does love her job. “If you two were discussing—”
“Nope,” I cut in because if I know Iris, and I’m glad to say that I do now, she’s about to leave. And I can’t let that happen. “We were done, right, Pip?”
Displeasure passes over her face like a cloud, quickly hidden. “I guess we are,” she mutters, rising and grabbing her purse. “I’ll still be in town this week. I’ll call you about getting together.”
You just had to say that, huh?
“Sure.” My smile is stiff and my voice curt. “See you later.”
As soon as the door swings closed behind Pippa, I reach for Iris.
“Hey, you.” I bring the back of her hand to my lips. “How’s tricks?”
She studies me for long seconds, her inspection thorough. “Forget tricks,” she says, her voice subdued. “How are you?”
“Were you worried about me?” I tease, rubbing my nose over the palm of her hand and smiling when she shivers.
“Of, course I was worr . . .” She heaves a deep breath and blows it out, running her free hand through the wild hair that’s erupted into waves and curls. “God, August.”
A tear slides over her cheek, and I feel like a royal asshole. My head may hurt, but I can still lift someone as small as Iris, so I do, dragging her to sit up against the pillows in the bed beside me. I tuck her under my arm and lower my forehead to hers. We’ve covered a lot of ground since she moved here a month ago. She said slow, and I added consistent. The Louisiana irises every morning. Daily text messages. Lunch together whenever my schedule allows. We’ve been seeing how we fit into each other’s lives. After years of seeing each other so sporadically, it’s good to set a normal pattern.
If I ever wondered if I was simply infatuated with the idea of Iris and the reality wouldn’t live up to my expectations, I know now she doesn’t just match to my fantasies. She’s so much better. As hard as it’s been, I haven’t tried to kiss her. Don’t want to rush her. I’ve honored her request for slow, and now when I see how she watches me, I believe it’s paying off.
“Hey, I’m okay.” I work my fingers into the thick hair spilling around her neck.
“You’re sure?” Her breath is cool and minty, but my lips burn. “I saw you fall and . . . I’m just glad you’re okay.” Another tear streaks down her cheek. I brush it away with my knuckle and push the tangle of hair from her face.
“I’m glad you’re here.” I leave a few kisses along her hairline. “Thanks for coming.”
“I had to.” She watches me from beneath lowered lashes for a few seconds before clearing her throat. “It was nice of Pippa to come by, too.”
“It really was,” I agree.
“She’s even prettier in real life.”
“She really is.”
“And so talented.” She pushes a skein of hair behind her shoulder. “I guess you guys have a lot in common.”
I’m struck by the irony of Iris being jealous of Pippa when Pippa stormed out moments ago, clearly aware Iris is the one I want.
“Iris.” I lift her chin until she meets my eyes. “Is there something you want to ask me about Pippa?”
“No, I . . . no, I—”
“Do you wanna know if I fucked her? Because I did, but that was a long time ago.”
Her eyes widen and then drop to her fingers twisting in her lap.
“I was with a lot of people then,” I confess. “Because I was trying my damnedest to forget you were with him.”
Her head snaps up, and we look at each other.
“You can ask me whatever you want, Iris, about anyone.” I run my nose along her cheek, listening for the hitch of her breath at the charged contact of my skin on hers.
She turns her head, and a centimeter, not even a fully drawn breath, separates our mouths. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and reaches up to touch my face, her fingertips wandering over my cheeks and painting a stripe down my nose. Her thumbnail outlines my lips, and I crave her touch on me everywhere. I lean into her, brushing our noses together once, twice, again.
“What are you doing?” she asks with a breathy laugh.
“Eskimo kisses,” I whisper, spreading my fingers to span her waist. “I’m scared to do the real thing. To kiss you.”
She rubs my nose back, her eyes never leaving mine, her lips just shy of a kiss.
“Why are you scared to kiss me?” she asks.
“Because the last time I kissed you,” I say, biting my lip, wanting
to bite hers, “you disappeared.”
She leans back a little, but I don’t let it last. I bring her back into my side until our thighs press together and the curve of her breast tortures me.
“Please don’t pull away from me.” I trace one dark eyebrow, studying the striking framework of her face. “Where’d you go, Iris?”
Her lips part, then slam shut, then part again before she finally speaks. “Louisiana.” She closes her eyes. “I went to my great-grandmother’s, but I didn’t want anyone to know.”
Why the secrecy? Was she in some kind of trouble? “Tell me what happened. What’s going on? Did Caleb—”
“I can’t talk to you about him,” she interrupts abruptly, opening her eyes to hold mine. “Don’t ask me about my life with him, August.”
“Nothing?” I press my back into the pillow to get a clearer look at her. “But I need to know if—”
“I signed an NDA.” A hard swallow flexes her slim throat. “Okay? So when I say I can’t talk about things with him, I mean I can’t. Breaking that jeopardizes sole custody of Sarai. Please don’t ask me.”
Can I move forward without understanding what happened in the past?
I have a million questions about her and Caleb, but I doubt her answers would actually satisfy me. I want to know if she ever loved him. I want to know if he was really her first, her only lover. The thought of her giving him that honor when he’s such an asshole scratches the inside of my brain.
“If you can’t,” she says after a few moments of silence, “then I understand.” She searches my face, her eyes anxious, and clutches her T-shirt in her fist.
“I used to think of you with him,” I admit. My laugh is bitter between us. “Of you . . .”
Fucking him.
Even now, the thought of him inside of her, of him getting her pregnant, watching her grow with Sarai, staking that claim on her that I can’t ever erase or usurp—it’s an asylum in my mind. My thoughts go crazy, and I draw a deep breath to stem the insanity.
