LONG SHOT: (A HOOPS Novel)

by Ryan, Kennedy

  I have to get up.

  “Ramone, you did good.” Caleb’s voice comes from the hall. “You showed real loyalty alerting me so quickly about West.”

  At the sound of his voice just outside the door, my beaten muscles tense involuntarily, trained to brace for a blow.

  “Thank you, sir,” Ramone answers stoically, his voice pitched low and gruff.

  “You’ll find a bonus already wired to your account,” Caleb says. “I have a flight to catch. Leaving China early threw a few things off. My agent needs me in New York tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow, though.”

  Fury percolates in my pores. Oddly, no fear. I’m done with fear, and I’m done waiting.

  The stars and moon have aligned. The circumstances are right, and today I will strike.

  The door swings open, and I go limp, close my eyes, and play possum one last time for the hunter.

  I’d know Caleb’s footfalls anywhere. The sound of him approaching has struck terror in me many times. His steps are heavy and deliberate. He wants you to know he’s coming, but to feel helpless. His steps say you can run, but you can’t hide.

  I’ll always catch you.

  His expensive cologne wafts over my face. Even with my eyes closed, I know he’s standing over me, assessing the worth of his prize.

  “Why did you do it?” he asks, voice tortured. “Why did you let him touch you? Why did you make me hurt you?”

  The toughened bend of his knuckle brushes the hair away from my face, skimming a tender spot. I suppress the urge to wince, still feigning sleep.

  “Andrew will be here soon to …” Caleb pauses in his one-sided conversation to clear his throat. For the first time, I wonder if he feels any real guilt when he hurts me. If in the husk where this psychopath’s heart used to be, occasionally there is a Lazarus sign—a reflexive heartbeat.

  “Andrew will be here to take care of you,” he finishes. “I’ll be back tomorrow night, baby. I know you’ll be mad, but we’ll get past this. We’ve been through so much together.” His rough chuckle pricks my skin with porcupine needles. “Maybe you’ll have good news when I come back. I keep hoping for another baby.”

  My gag reflex almost gives me away. The thought of his seed planted in me again roils my stomach, and the thought of his daughter in the next room is the only thing that has me holding on. The kiss he leaves on my forehead slithers over my flesh.

  The most welcome sound is his retreating footsteps. My relief, the sound of his car pulling away.

  It usually takes hours for me to move after a beating half this brutal, but I don’t have hours. There’s only now. This beating, timed with Caleb’s trip, is the perfect opportunity. I’ve had these things before, but what I’ve been missing is help. Today, though, I’ll ask for it. Ignoring the protest of my ribs with every breath, I force myself to sit up, to roll out of bed, wrapping myself in the sheet.

  The debris of our fight litters the floor. A shattered lamp and glass from broken picture frames. There’s a crack in the wall in the shape of my defeat—the shape of my body slammed into the plaster.

  I fought back.

  It was my worst beating at Caleb’s hands, but I pray it was also the last.

  I make my way gingerly over to Sarai’s diaper bag in the corner of the room. I search the small pockets, almost weeping with relief when I find my cell phone, still where I stowed it yesterday. Footsteps approach in the hall. I clutch the diaper bag to my chest just as the door eases open.

  Andrew and I stare at each other. From the horror on his face, I can only imagine how I look.

  “God, Iris.” Pity dulls his eyes. “I’m sorry. Let’s get you taken care of.”

  “No.” I expel the word with force.

  “What do you mean ‘no?’” He shifts his medical bag from one hand to the other. “We need to get you patched up.”

  “Patched up?” Disdain saturates the air between us. “Is that what you think I want? For you to patch me up so he can beat me again? Until one day he kills me? Because one day he will, Andrew. If I stay, he’ll kill me. He almost did last night.”

  His glance roams my face, my battered features testifying on my behalf. Telling him I’m right.

  I walk toward him, pain marking every step. I death-grip Sarai’s diaper bag with one hand and the sheet with the other. Once I’m standing right in front of him, where he can’t escape what I’m sure is the bruised, cut, and swollen topography of my face, I speak.

  “I need your help.”

  The doors slam shut on his expression the way they do every time I plead with him.

  “I can’t.” He shakes his head and averts his gaze. “You know I can’t.”

  “All I need is your cooperation, not your assistance,” I say desperately. “Just don’t stop me. Don’t shout when I run.” I pause, letting my simple request sink in before the biggest ask. “Don’t treat me.”

  He looks up sharply, narrow-eyed and curious.

  “You have friends who could examine me, right?” I ask.

  “No, Iris. I don’t.”

  “A doctor who can document this and all the things that have been done to me. I need X-rays, and tests, and …” I swallow shame, embarrassment, guilt—all the artificial things that have held me back from asking for help in the past. “A rape kit.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “I may know someone,” he finally admits. “But I can’t get you out of here. Ramone is downstairs on guard as usual. I don’t put it past him to shoot you in the back if you try to run.”

  “I have a plan.” I pull my cell phone from the diaper bag. “Let me worry about Ramone.”

  “You know Caleb monitors that phone,” Andrew says quickly. “He’ll intercept any message you send.”

  “I know.” I type one word in and press send. “If he bothers to look, this message won’t make any sense to him.”

  I stare at the word in all caps on my screen, hoping it’s enough of a distress signal to bring in my cavalry.

  HOPSCOTCH.

  31

  Iris

  There’s a ruckus downstairs just a few hours later, and it’s the most blessed sound I’ve ever heard. The proverbial music to my ears.

  “Get the hell out of my way or I’m calling the cops and every news station I can get here. You want shit at your front door? ’Cause I can bring shit to your front door.”

  “This is private property,” Ramone’s deep voice rumbles up to me.

  “Yeah, and my cousin lives on this private property,” Lotus fires back. “If I don’t see her in the next thirty seconds, whatever is going on here will be on every major broadcast tonight. Test me.”

  I don’t give him a chance to test her. That kind of exposure would work against my plan. I open the bedroom door and step onto the landing. Two pairs of eyes climb the stairs until they reach me with Sarai on my hip.

  “Oh, my God, Iris.” Outrage, incredulity, and fury war in Lotus’s voice and on her face.

  By now I’ve looked in the mirror and know what she sees. I’m not so much Iris as a black-eyed Susan. My face is the canvas of an abstract painting with eyes distorted and mismatched, one bigger than the other. I’m splashed with wild streaks of black and magenta and scarlet. My lips are split and triple-sized. A many-colored bruise blossoms on my forehead and flowers into my hairline. My other parts haven’t fared much better. My body is a patchwork of violence.

  And it’s all the evidence I need.

  “Lotus.” Her name releases from me like a held breath. There is still so much ahead, and my plan must be perfectly executed to the last detail for me to truly escape, not just today, but for good.

  I look to Ramone standing beside her. Panic widens his eyes, and he immediately starts dialing.

  “Call him, please,” I say, starting down the steps, holding Sarai close and carrying a small bag with only our most essential things. “Tell him I’m gone.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere,�
�� Ramon snaps, his brows jerked together.

  “Try and stop us.” Lotus climbs the last few steps to meet me halfway. She takes Sarai and buries her face in the baby-scented curls for a second before grabbing my hand. Linked at our hands, linked at our hearts again, we rush down the staircase and across the foyer.

  When we reach the door, Ramone’s hand snakes out to grab my arm, but I force myself to stand straight.

  “Get your hands off me.” I meet his eyes with no hesitation. “Or we call the cops right now, and I tell them everything. Think you’re the only one who can lie to the authorities? I’ll say you’ve been beating and raping me, too. You want to go down with Caleb? Does your loyalty really stretch that far?”

  His hand drops, and his throat bobs with a gulp.

  Lotus and I open the door and walk swiftly through. A green Volkswagen Beetle sits out front, parked haphazardly in the circular driveway.

  “You got a new car?” I ask. This banal question is all I can manage. Let’s talk about the easy things we’ve missed, not about the purgatory I’ve been trapped in.

  “No, I don’t even own a car. I borrowed a friend’s as soon as I got your message.” Tears flood Lotus’s eyes and she sniffs, swiping under her running nose, even as she climbs in. “What the hell, Bo? How did this even … happen? What’s going on?”

  I ignore her questions, my heart battering my chest cavity with the promise of escape so close. I climb in the back, because I don’t even have a car seat for Sarai. I’m leaving it behind with all the other things Caleb bought. A small portion of our possessions is in the duffle bag, along with a little fistful of cash Andrew gave me and the little I’ve been able to hide and hoard over time. I pull the seat belt across us both and spend a few seconds hating myself for not trusting Lo sooner—for letting my shame and resentment and our petty disagreement come between us. I hate myself for not taking the risk and reaching out. Letting that minutiae stand between her and me, and between me and freedom, for too long.

  I’ll make up for it now. I’ll pull back the curtain and show her my scars. “Just drive, Lo, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  32

  Iris

  “What will it take to make this go away?” Caleb’s father asks, closing the folder on the conference room table in front of him.

  Caleb shifts in his seat, the muscle in his jaw ticking and barely checked rage rolling off the tightly held muscles of his body. I look at him until he looks up and returns my stare unblinkingly, unflinchingly and without an ounce of remorse.

  “This doesn’t go away,” I answer, my eyes never leaving Caleb’s face. “Ever.”

  “Then what are we doing here?” Caleb stands abruptly, the chair scraping across the hardwood floor. I chose neutral ground for the meeting I called with Caleb, his father, and his agent at the hotel where my credit card was denied that first night when I tried to escape. I hope Caleb appreciates the irony.

  “Sit down, Caleb,” Mr. Bradley says, his voice flinty. “And shut your fucking mouth. You’re lucky she’s even offering us terms.”

  Mr. Bradley’s cold eyes turn to me again, the same shade of blue arrogance as Caleb’s.

  “I assume there are terms?” he asks me, one brow lifted and his hand already drawing a check book from his pocket.

  Ah, he came prepared.

  “You can put that away.” I nod to the check book. “I don’t want your money. I don’t want anything from you or your son, except my freedom and my daughter.”

  “No,” Caleb snarls. “You’re not leaving, and you won’t take my daughter from me.”

  “You sadistic bastard, I’ve already left.” I lean forward, fixing my eyes on the piece of shit who fathered my child. “She’s my daughter, and we’ll go wherever I say.” I hold up my copy of the folder they have. “Unless you want the NBA, all your fans, sponsors, and the entire world to know their golden boy is an abusive monster.”

  Maury, Caleb’s agent, closes the folder containing photo after photo, from every angle, of the bruises and swollen places aching under my clothes even now, two days later. The pictures, the rape kit, documentation of previous injuries – all of it tells the story I’ve hidden for months until I had as much damning evidence on Caleb as he fabricated about me. Maury pushes the folder away on the table like a plate of rotten meat.

  “Shit, Caleb,” he mutters. “How could you do this?”

  Maury looks at me for the first time, wincing when he encounters the evidence of Caleb’s brutality stamped into my face. The only sympathy I’ll find in this room lies in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry this happened to you, Iris,” he says softly, swallowing deeply. “What do you want? How’s this gonna go?”

  I draw in a fortifying breath, ignoring the heat of Caleb’s glare. “As you see, the injuries I suffered only two days ago have been documented by a physician.” I steady my voice even though the humiliation of exposing what happened nearly chokes me. “X-rays and a complete examination also show evidence of past injuries never properly attended.” With one look, I fire a shot across the table at Caleb. “Tests also found evidence of rape.” I use the word deliberately, lest Caleb or anyone else think there was anything consensual about what happened to me.

  “Rape?” Maury asks, his indignation emerging again. “What the hell? Damn you, Caleb. I’ll turn you in myself.”

  “Oh, no.” I shake my head decisively. “Other athletes outed as abusers are fined and miss a few games, only to be back on the court, back on the field in a few weeks. I’m not trusting my life, my daughter’s life to a system that favors men just like Caleb. I’ve seen the so-called consequences we have for domestic abuse, and I need more than that.”

  Cracks in the system are tailor-made and just the right size for men like Caleb to slip through. Caleb’s fame and money only tip the already-tilted scales even more in his favor. I’ve seen it too often to leave this to chance.

  “No,” I continue. “You’ll comply with everything I ask or all the gory details come out. Endorsements gone, NBA career over, and at least a few years of your life behind bars.”

  “Just get to the point,” Mr. Bradley says. “What do you want?”

  My daughter. My innocence back. My tattered illusions repaired. My dreams restored.

  My second chance with August.

  All of it feels improbable, so I ask for the things I know I can get using the evidence splayed on the conference room table.

  “I want my freedom.” I shift steady eyes to Caleb. “You don’t follow us. You don’t try to find us. You waive paternal rights, and you leave us alone.”

  A disbelieving laugh sputters from Caleb’s lips. “You stupid bitch,” he spits. “You think I’ll give my daughter to you?”

  “Did you bring the journal and my ring like I asked?” I ignore his insults and his arrogance. “Because I want those, too.”

  He sobers fast, thinning his lips and icing his eyes over in the way that used to strike terror in me, but no longer can.

  “Caleb,” Maury says sharply. “Give them to her.”

  For a second it looks like he won’t, but his father snaps his fingers, and I know I’ve won at least this battle. Caleb pulls out the journal and slides it across the table so hard it skids off the edge and falls to the floor. Before I can squat to get it, Maury is there, picking it up and offering it to me with an apologetic look.

  “My client’s an asshole,” he murmurs.

  “Obviously, you don’t have to tell me that,” I say, accepting the journal. “And my great-grandmother’s ring?”

  “I have no idea where your backwoods jewelry is,” Caleb drawls, contempt frosting his smile. “What use do I have for that cheap shit?”

  I know he’s lying, but the ring is a small casualty in this war, considering all I’m gaining today. Considering all I’ve lost.

  “Fine. My journal and my freedom will do,” I say, locking eyes with him.

  “That’s it?” Caleb slouches in his seat. “And
I don’t ever get to see my daughter again?”

  Everything in me screams hell no, but having stripped him of his parental rights, I make the only concession I can. “When she’s older, and if you’ve completed anger management therapy to my satisfaction, then I’ll consider supervised visits.”

  “To your satisfaction?” He rolls his eyes and sucks his teeth. “We’ll see about that.”

  “Caleb, shut your fucking mouth,” his father snaps. “Iris, I understand. I’ll have paperwork drawn up reflecting your … demands.”

  The hesitation on his face seems out of place. He’s always sure, but uncertainty is as clear as the pride he pushes aside to ask his next question.

  “Maybe you could …” He clears his throat, an uncharacteristic pause from a man who always sounds sure. “… consider allowing my wife and me to see Sarai when the time is right? She is our only granddaughter, after all.”

  I toughen the soft parcels of my heart, giving no ground. Anyone I have contact with is someone Caleb can use to find me before I’m ready to be found. Phone calls, letters, messages—they’re all bread crumbs Caleb would sniff out and follow if his obsession overpowered his sense of self-preservation.

  “I’ll consider that later,” I reply. “But right now, I need to put distance between me and everything to do with your son, including you.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Caleb says under his breath.

  “That’s fair …” Mr. Bradley’s expression hardens into granite, his negotiating face. “Now for our terms.”

  I knew this was coming, and I’m prepared. I simply nod for him to go on.

  “You sign an NDA that you’ll never speak of this and never release the contents of this file, as long as Caleb complies with your requests,” he says. “And I mean speak of it to no one. Ever. Violation of that nullifies everything else and restores Caleb’s parental rights.”

  I meet Caleb’s eyes, and for a second, I think he wants me to violate it—to give him an excuse to break the leash I’m imposing and come after me, take Sarai. Hurt me again.