by A. J. Pryor
“Have you heard from him today?”
“No.”
“Do you want to hear from him?”
“Truth?”
“Umm, yeah, truth. You think I want to hear a bunch of bullshit?”
I smile for the first time today. “It’s like I’ve lost my virginity to the class bad boy, and I’m naïve enough to think I’m the one who’s going to change him.”
“The class bad boy was Cody Saint, and I did lose my virginity to him,” she says. “But no one ever accused Cody of murder.”
“A killer,” I say. “A killer.” And my appetite is gone. “Why am I bummed he hasn’t called?”
“Maybe you have one of those asphyxia fetishes.”
I ignore her.
“Do you think he’s capable of murder?” Gwen asks.
“Yes.” Gwen drops her fork and nods for me to continue. “He’s a football player. He has to be ruthless, has to check his emotions at the door. I think if pushed far enough, Derek Cage would use his bare hands to crush the life out of anyone who got in his way.” I saw his protective aggression firsthand outside the pizza parlor. He’d been shielding me, and he’d been brutal. Fierce. The truth hangs in the air between us. Yes. He’s capable. “But capable doesn’t mean guilty.”
“What about the murdered girl. Who was she?”
I tell Gwen the little I know about Lily and her life with Derek, the bits and pieces I uncovered, the fact she lived next door to him, was his girlfriend, had known him her entire life, and to this day, her death remains unsolved.
In everything I’ve read, Derek’s name is never mentioned with hers, like their story was wiped clean or possibly never happened in the first place.
“Little Miss Sunshine, you’ve been quite the busy bee, haven’t you?” Chandler flies into my office like he’s the Road Runner himself. He’s waving an article I’ve happily not seen today.
“Which one’s that?” Gwen asks.
“TMZ, and you know they always get their scoop right.”
“The Rage takes mystery woman for a spin and shows his true colors in the process.”
“That’s a terrible photo of me,” I say.
“Hideous. Those monsters have no tact.” Unconcerned about interrupting our lunch, Chandler plops himself in the empty chair and props his feet on my desk. “Spill. Give me the deets.”
“There are no deets.”
“You don’t need to lie to me.” He drops his feet and sits tall. “I won’t spill your secrets.”
I ignore him as I shuffle the papers around my desk.
“Look, Sunshine, I’m all for dating the bad boys, but watch out for this one. He’s got people in high places who can cover shit it up. Know what I mean?”
“I’m not dating anyone. It was a work thing.”
“Then where’d you get that hickey?”
“What?” I slap a hand over my neck.
“You have a bruise, on your cheek.”
I palm the side of my face that hit the floor this morning. “It’s not a hickey. I fell today.”
His brows rise.
“It’s nothing.” I can’t tell Chandler about this morning or the photos. I can’t tell him any of it. If I want his help, he needs to know I’m safe. “What do you know about the fingerprint?”
He flashes a grin. “You’ve discovered a clue?”
“It seems I have. Whose was it?”
“What fingerprint?” Gwen chimes in.
Without revealing my source, I give a little detail about the lone fingerprint.
Chandler sits back with a smug look. “It wasn’t Derek’s fingerprint found on that bloody rock, and that was a key piece of evidence that ensured no charges were pressed. The Harolds didn’t care who owned the print. There was enough other circumstantial evidence that pointed to Derek.”
“That’s a big clue. They couldn’t find the owner?”
He shrugs. “Apparently not.”
“How do you know all of this?” Gwen asks.
“Yes, Chandler, how do you know all of this?”
As though it’s common knowledge, he says, “I grew up in Winnetka. So did Cage.”
“Winnetka?” Gwen asks. “North Shore? That’s exclusive living, Chandler.”
“Did you know Derek back then? Did you go to school with him?”
“I’ve lusted after that man since my tiny, sixteen-year-old self realized it liked dick.” Oh God. “But that’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” I ask. “Because it seems as though my new friend has failed me. You’ve been keeping important information from me, and at the moment, I’m pissed at you.”
With sass I haven’t seen since LA, Chandler lets loose. “Hello, Miss Kiss and Do Not Tell. If we’re BFFs, then information sharing goes both ways. Now I’m going to let that little hissy fit slide and give you some more scoop.”
Straightening in my chair, I nod for him to continue.
“I was there, Sunshine. I lived that tragedy. Lily was my lab partner. I’d known her since I was six years old. Cage didn’t kill her. He loved her.” Chandler looks behind him then over at Gwen. “Do you trust this one?” he asks me as he’s jutting his thumb in Gwen’s direction. She stills mid bite, an offensive slant to her eyes.
“She’s a vault, Chandler. Spill it.”
He stands and closes the door, lowering his voice to just above a whisper. “Tom Cage did whatever he could to cast suspicion on Derek. Then he freed him. They ran in an elite circle. Tom Cage? He’s dirty. I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed Lily himself.”
What the hell? Tom Cage?
“But why?” I ask.
“Everyone thinks Madeline Cage’s car wreck was an accident. I’m not so sure. I have it on good authority she was about to leave her husband and may have been seeing someone behind his back.”
“Chandler, you’re making shit up.”
“I am not. Tom Cage takes his legacy very seriously. He isn’t going to allow anyone to damage his name, even his own flesh and blood.”
“Her car went off a bridge in a terrible blizzard, Chandler. All the facts are there,” I argue.
“That’s like the numero uno clue to murder. All the facts are there. Ask yourself these questions: Why was she in her sedan that night and not an SUV? No sane person in Chicago would drive a sedan in a snowstorm. Why was she on that bridge? Stories say she was heading out to get milk, but Sunshine, she had staff to run those errands. It’s all laid out in front of you. It’s too clear-cut.”
“He has a point.” Gwen is biting her nails, her brow furrowed in concern.
“But what would that have to do with Lily Harold?” I get what Chandler is saying, but none of it is adding up. There’re too many holes.
“Figure out why, Sunshine, and you’ve not only got your story, but you have solved one of the coldest cases in the history of Chicago. And watch your back while you’re digging. That case is cold for a reason.”
Could Tom Cage pull off the perfect crime? Murder his wife and his son’s girlfriend? And if so, why?
“So, next week?” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper in the darkness of my car. She looked smaller than her seventeen years, almost childlike in her demeanor. I’m glad we’re waiting. There’s no need to rush what’s between us.
“Lily.” She turns at my voice, her expression shy. I take her hand. “Whether it’s next week, next month, or in ten years, I’m yours. The physical stuff, that’s just an added benefit. There’s no need to rush this.”
She visibly relaxes, and I lean in for a kiss. “Don’t have sex for me, Lils. I’m in this with you, no matter what.”
“I just thought you’d expect . . . since, well since you’ve been with so many other girls.”
“Oh yeah, those two other girls. So many.”
“Shut up. I’m trying to explain myself.”
“No explanation necessary.”
Her house is dark, ominous, the top of the roof looking like it’s breaking thro
ugh the night sky. “Where are your parents?”
She twists her lips. “Some charity event.”
“Want me to walk you in? Make sure there’s no boogie man?”
“Derek. I’m not six. I don’t believe in the boogie man anymore.”
I look at my home. Of course she doesn’t, her parents are saints. I’m the one who lives with the world’s scariest human.
“Love you, Lils.”
“Love you too, Derek.”
Simultaneously, we opened our doors, the freezing Chicago wind chilling to the bone.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Always.”
I sit up, slick with sweat. My body is shaking with the memory of the last time I saw Lily alive.
My heart hurts.
I never replied to Hannah’s text, never reached out to see if she was okay, never made plans to see her again. I’m fucking up in more ways than I can keep up, a downward spiral I don’t know how to slow. Everything about her is out of my comfort zone. When I’m with her, I want more. I want it all. I want the life I was denied. I want her to trust me and give her mine in return. These feelings terrify me. They bring forward the past. A past that will break me and ruin her.
“You ready, QB?”
I nod at Coxy. Game on. Showtime. The shit’s about to hit the fan. Our stadium lit like the Fourth of July. Monday Night Football against the Steelers, and every seat filled, crowds chanting, orange and blue everywhere. Press has been buzzing around like flies.
I may barf. Fear, anxiety, and panic—every extreme emotion a top NFL quarterback should be immune to—rush through my body. Happens every fucking game. Every. Fucking. Game. I’m not alone either. I glance over at Wallace and Frisco. Tight ends bigger and stronger than any man alive. They’re green like fresh-cut grass, pretending to laugh at something our wide receiver is saying, but I know. If they could shit their pants right now, they would.
A lot is riding on this game. We’re the underdogs, the outcasts. We have something to prove tonight. Whether to ourselves or the rest of the world, I’m not sure, but we want everyone to know we cannot be hindered, as though one day that will mean something significant.
Coxy is dancing. Literally moonwalking across the floor like Michael Jackson is in the fucking room. Maybe Coxy’s immune to the anxiety rush that hits the rest of us every time.
I grab his outstretched hand. “Keep those fuckers away from me, and we may pull off a win today,” I say, standing tall.
“Fuck you talking about, QB? We aren’t gonna lose this one.” He slaps me upside the head.
“Language, Coxy.”
He flashes a smug grin before he moonwalks through the locker room doors, and the tension eases.
Bob Hillson, our new announcer, is beginning to call us out. I’m pumped, anxiety changing to adrenaline, fear changing to focus.
I turn to toss my phone in my locker, but it buzzes before it leaves my fingers. The twisting of my gut has nothing to do with the game and everything to do with Hannah’s name flashing on the screen. It’s been almost two weeks since our names hit the front page of every newspaper in the Midwest. My actions outside Lou Malnati’s are regrettable and yet unavoidable. The urgency to shield Hannah from that photographer, to keep her face out of the press, her name a mystery, was so intense, that aggression seemed my only option. I won’t pull her into my dark world. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her, but staying away from her has proven to be just as brutal. I miss her.
Holding my phone, staring at her name, I’m hesitant to read what Hannah has to say. She makes me feel vulnerable. I hate it and love it all the same. Taking a steadying breath, I read her text.
Good luck.
Despite myself, I smile. But it quickly fades. My father is running for president. Fucking president. He sees Hannah as a threat, and he may be right. I know him. Know what he’s capable of. He’ll stop at nothing to keep his secrets hidden. Seeing Hannah risks everything. He’ll make sure she’s silenced. Whatever it takes.
I can’t be seen with her, can’t allow her to write a story on my life. Not the truth. Never the truth. She will fall, just like my mother did. I can’t be the reason for that.
With a pain in my chest, I swipe her name to the side and press delete, resisting temptation, resisting her.
We’re killing it, up by fourteen points. Our defense is on fire, our offense spot on. Coxy’s trash-talking up a storm, and I’m determined to win this game.
I take the snap, watch DeLong fake left, see the safety bite on the fake, and know DeLong will be open in the end zone. I cock my arm, set to deliver the throw of a lifetime. A flurry of motion on my right startles me, but not before I pass the ball. Coxy and a Steelers’ defenseman are headed straight for me. Fucking Coxy. They land at my feet, Coxy taking the asshole to the ground.
“Don’t you touch my QB!” Coxy yells when he gets off the player.
The entire stadium erupts, and I watch as DeLong catches my pass.
We fucking beat the Steelers. Hell, yes!
The celebration is intense, the roar of the crowd deafening. We’ve won. Fucking unbelievable. We pile into the locker room. The reporters file in after us, herded together like cattle. I scan the room, but I already know she’s not here.
The questions are lame: How do I feel about the win? What does this mean for your career? George Cox almost let you get sacked. Did you feel George Cox and Emmanuel Jenkins at your feet on your last touchdown toss?
I give one-word answers: “Great. Perfect. Stupid.”
Reporters leave angry, and I go back to my secluded and private life.
Showered, dressed, and ready to leave, I keep my head down and walk to my car.
“Mr. Cage.” A female voice catches my attention. “Congratulations on the win.”
Stunned, breathless, my heart is pounding.
She came.
Hannah looks amazing, her hair pulled up on top of her head, a few curls hanging around her face. A black blazer covers a tight white shirt, and I’m drawn to her. I’m always drawn to her.
I grin. My heart does a double beat. What the fuck is that about? I place a hand on my chest and will it to stop. It doesn’t.
“Questions and answers are over, Hannah.”
We’re three feet apart, but it feels like miles. She takes a step toward me, and I want to follow her lead, but I stay planted where I am.
She shrugs. “I’ve never been one to play by the rules, Mr. Cage.”
Her stance is too stiff, her calm demeanor at odds with what’s going on inside that head of hers. “What’s your question, Hannah?”
A slight grin lights up her face, and she rocks back on her heels, looking up at me. “What type of music do you listen to before your games?”
Hannah and her off-the-wall questions. I grin and take a step forward. “Some Jay-Z and Little Wayne.”
“You like rap?” Her nose scrunches as she says the word rap.
“It gets me amped,” I say, moving closer.
“What did it feel like?” she asks.
“What did what feel like?”
“When your pass landed in DeLong’s hands. Can you describe it?”
I can’t, but for her . . . I’ll try.
“It’s an endorphin rush like no other, similar to the relief you feel at a first kiss, or an unexpected embrace.”
She traces the outline of her lips, her cheeks reddening.
“Is that how it felt . . . when you kissed me?”
My pulse pounds. My heart races. I close the distance between us and cup her face between my hands. “Yes.” I lean forward and whisper, “Every. Single. Time.”
I kiss her, stealing her breath and groaning when a soft sigh escapes her mouth.
She clutches my shirt, keeping us close. I barely know her, but I’ve missed her. I’ve missed her off-the-wall questions and her persistent need to find answers. I’ve missed the way she gawks at me. Like she knows she shouldn’t, but she can’t help herse
lf. I’ve missed her.
“Come home with me, Hannah.”
What the fuck, Cage?
A car door slams, and she jerks back, away from my touch, away from me. We both straighten. A slight shake of her head gives me the answer. Of course she won’t. How stupid of me to even ask.
“Thanks for the last-minute interview, Cage. I’ll see you later.”
Every muscle in my body strains with the need to stop her retreat. But I let her go, not sure who I’m protecting more: her or me.
The crowd at Soldier Field is wild. Fans are dressed in orange and blue, hoping to see another win, hoping their home team will crush the 49ers.
Monday night’s win against the Steelers has brought a confident vibe to the stadium, but I’m feeling angsty. Derek and I had taken an unspoken cooling-off period after the incident at Lou Malnati’s. I didn’t know what to expect from my surprise visit Monday night. But then he’d kissed me, and every emotion came flooding back: the heat, the passion, and the pounding of my heart. Then, crickets. I have a story to write, and I refuse to let a little sexual tension get in my way.
Larry wants this story. The bits and pieces I’ve piled together are too intriguing to let slip through his fingers. My portrayal of an everyday man at odds with the violent NFL player the rest of the world chooses to see. Lily Harold’s death mystifies me. If Derek didn’t kill her, who did? And why?
It’s pregame warm-up, both teams on the field. Players are in uniform, already sweating, already jazzed up. There’s an enormous amount of testosterone in every direction, so much you can almost smell it.
“Hey, pretty reporter. You finally decide I’m a better story?”
George Cox is dancing in front of me, his smile big and charming. “Your white boy gets a little nervous before games. Throws up an hour before warm-up. Put that in your story.”
Coxy becomes a prop in my personal Lifetime drama. My attention has shifted to number 18. A tall, muscular athlete with striking blue eyes, thick dark hair, and a body covered in cut, hard muscle, who is staring at me from across the field. Derek. He takes off his helmet. My reaction to this man never dulls the sexual tension tugging at me even from fifty yards away. I know he feels the pull, too.
