Breaking Cage

by A. J. Pryor

“Tell me what haunts you, Derek.”

  He grabs my wrists and kisses the inside of each one. In sad and tragic detail, Derek tells me the story of that fateful night. The hours spent on the side of a mountain, the professions of love passed from one soul to the other, the goodbye he never imagined would be their last.

  His voice shakes as he gazes to the heavens in a silent plea for forgiveness.

  “For over eleven years, I’ve dreamt of that night. I’ve been left to wonder how I could have saved her. In my dreams, I’ve watched her die repeatedly. I’ve seen a faceless man strike the side of her head, and I’ve wondered why, but I’ve never been close to the truth. I don’t know if I ever will be.”

  Bringing his palm to my lips, I kiss the cold center. I do the same thing with his other hand.

  “I couldn’t save my mom, and I couldn’t save Lily. My father wanted it all to go away. Made a deal with me. Stay out of trouble, stay out of the press, and whatever difficulty came my way, he’d fix it. My behavior could not ruin the Cage name his family had so vehemently protected.”

  Tom Cage, ruthless to the core.

  “I was put in a cage. Living my family name.” He holds my stare. “Free me, Hannah. Write my story and break the cage.”

  My heart pounds. “Are you sure?”

  “I want this with you. Releasing me from that hell is the only way to move forward.”

  I kiss his lips.

  “My father will get in your way.”

  I shrug.

  “He’ll threaten you.”

  I smile, wondering what Senator Cage could hold against me.

  “He won’t leave you alone.”

  Pfft. I wave away his comment. “I’m not afraid of Senator Cage.”

  A huge grin crosses his face. “Come here, Hannah Black.”

  My cold nose touches the tip of his.

  “Kiss me,” he whispers.

  “Do you know Hannah Black?”

  It’s like a punch to the gut. Two police officers at my door at 3 a.m. asking about Hannah is bad news. “What’s wrong with Hannah?” My fists curl, the desperation to help her burning my veins.

  “She’s dead.”

  I smash my hand through the wall.

  FUCK.

  I bolt out of bed, my heart thundering, my body covered in sweat, my fist gripped tight. I’m shaking, searching my condo for cops, for Hannah, for reality.

  Throwing on my jacket and a pair of shoes, I grab my keys and leave. Jumping in my truck. I get the fuck out of there. I need to see her, make sure she’s all right. Make sure I haven’t already ruined her life, too.

  I park outside her building and pull my phone from my pocket, scrolling the screen to find her name.

  You up, Hannah? I text.

  I’ll break through her door to get to her, if I have to. Three dots appear on my screen.

  Hannah: I am now. What’s up, Cage?

  The groan that escapes my throat could rival a rabid bear. I need to see her, touch her.

  In five minutes, open your front door, I text back.

  I leave my truck illegally parked and walk briskly, purposefully, determined until I’m in the elevator. Nearing her apartment, the tension eases, and the sound of the deadbolt sliding free is a relief.

  The door swings open, and I’m there.

  She’s not moving, not talking, her gaze roaming my face, resting on my lips. The name “Angel” isn’t worthy of her at this moment. She’s glowing from the overhead light, her hair pulled into a bun, her brown eyes hazy with sleep. She’s wearing a robe cinched tight, too tight.

  I cup her face in my hands and run my thumbs along her cheeks, caressing her soft skin, making sure she’s whole. I pull her outside under the light so I can see all of her.

  “Derek,” she whispers.

  “Hush, Angel.” Bending, I drag my lips against hers in a whisper.

  “Derek,” she breathes, and my gut constricts, vibrating when her delicate fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling me inside her apartment.

  The urge to mate is at times overwhelming. Right now, it’s all-consuming.

  I must look like I’ve been through hell. I feel as though I’ve met the devil himself and returned a saved man. My personal hell is back to haunt me.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “No.” I close the door. “I need you. Right now.” Reaching for the tie on her robe, I pull, releasing its grip, unveiling the woman underneath.

  Her breath catches, and her eyes hood over in lust.

  “God, you’re beautiful.” Large, full breasts barely hidden under a white tank with white, see-through panties sheath her intimate parts, making me so hard.

  Pulling her into my arms, I graze her neck with my teeth, slide my tongue into the groove at the base of her throat, and taste the salty, seduction of her skin.

  Her moans intensify; her fingers dig into my arms.

  I hold her body close to mine, feel her breasts press against my chest, and my erection rubs painfully along her stomach. I kiss a path to her nipple, and suck through the soft material of her shirt, making a large wet circle, making the white fabric translucent. All sound thought flies away.

  She slides her hands up my jacket, reaching for my zipper and pulls it down, exposing my bare chest, giggling. Her hand over her mouth, her shoulders scrunched up, she begins to laugh with my lips attached to her breast.

  “What happened to you?”

  I look at my body. I’m wearing blue flannel pajama bottoms, and my dick is sticking straight out, pointing at her. My sneakers are at least five years old, my hair is falling in my face, and I forgot a shirt.

  “I had a nightmare,” I say.

  “And you thought I could make you feel better?” Her eyes fill with mischief; her tongue slides along her full bottom lip.

  Enclosing her in my arms, I kiss her. “I know you can.”

  Lifting her, she wraps her legs around my hips, and I walk her down the hallway. A soft white light gives me a dimmed view of her room. It’s messier than I imagined. I hadn’t taken the time to notice the other night, but now I see all things, Hannah. It’s soft and calming, whites and pale blues, a mixture of Californian charm and feminine elegance.

  I place her onto the bed and slip the robe down her arms, kissing the curve of her neck, the roundness of her shoulder, grazing my teeth along the underside of her arm. She smells like fresh air and sunshine. Like a new beginning.

  “I need you,” I say, my lips pressed to her bare belly; her soft curves are subtle under my fingers. “God, I fucking need you.”

  “I’m yours.”

  In the darkness of her room, we whisper each other’s names and make promises with the gentle caresses of our hands, with the soft kisses of our lips, discovering each dip and groove, every erogenous point on our bodies, until we’re panting, and our skin is slick with heated sweat. And it feels right. It feels good. We tease each other until it’s too much, our bodies wound tight, and I finally sink deep inside her.

  Tight, slick heat coats me—everything Hannah—and it’s heavenly. She moans in relief, her hands grasping at my arms, her teeth biting my lip.

  My basal need takes over all control, my need to make her tremble, my need to hear her scream my name, my need to completely and thoroughly own every inch of her body.

  “Derek,” she begs.

  “I know, Hannah. I know.”

  I kiss her, move above her, our skin sliding like satin, our hearts beating in sync, and her body responds.

  There is no shadow of the past, no ghosts to haunt our actions. It’s simply us. At this moment, in this act of trust, it isn’t sex or even love-making. It’s altering two souls to exist as one. I will carry this with me always. Use it to lighten the darkness. She’s my savior, and in some twist of fate, I think I’m hers as well.

  We come as one, a euphoric joining of the heart, a mixing of the souls.

  My body trembles as I fall on top of her, our skin slick, my face beside hers. She s
mells feminine and sexy all at once. Her hair wild, her eyes closed. I can’t catch my breath, can’t still my shaking body or calm my racing heart. I don’t ever want to leave her side.

  “Did you feel that?” I whisper. I need to know she’s as blown away as I am, that I’m not the only one changed.

  “Yes,” she breathes out. “Yes.”

  I lie beside her and take her hand. “Just making sure I’m not on an island.”

  She curls into my side. “I’m with you, Cage. I’m with you.”

  I wake to the sound of muffled noise and catch Derek moving quietly around my room.

  “What time is it?” I reach for him, my body not ready to say goodbye.

  “Five. I have to go to the training center.”

  I tug on his arm, and he slides back beside me, pulling me into an embrace, our naked bodies enjoying a few moments of peacefulness. He’s warm, his skin gently pressed to mine, the subtle trailing of his hand down my back a comfort. It’s not erotic or suggestive, pure serenity and contentment.

  “Have a good day, Cage.”

  His chest expands on a deep inhale and his soft breath trickles down my spine as he exhales. “Last night was amazing,” he says, releasing me and tucking me back under the covers. “And today’s going to rock.”

  In the dusk, I can see the curve of his ass, the hard lines of his abs, and the outline of his semi before he slips his pants on. A possessive need jolts me. Something shifted last night, an unspoken commitment. I feel the need to protect this man, to honor him in some way.

  “You checking me out?”

  I smile. “Last night was amazing.”

  He sits beside me, the bed tilting with his weight. He runs a hand through his hair. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even with the rumors, the accusations, the past. You still trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I don’t see the man you’re talking about. The Rage. I don’t know that person. I only know you, and I like what I see.”

  His fingers slip between mine. He leans forward and presses his lips to my scalp. “I want more of this, Hannah. More of your trust. More of you. You’re all I want.”

  “What about all of those women you mentioned?”

  “There hasn’t been anyone else since you snuck into the back of the locker room. I’m not interested in seeing anyone else, and I don’t want you to either.”

  “Okay.” And it is all finally okay.

  “I like you, Hannah.” I squeeze his hand, and he kisses me once more. “A lot.”

  He studies my face. “I don’t want you in the press. You’ll be a target if the public thinks we’re dating.”

  “There’s already speculation, Cage.”

  “Rumors I can handle. Photographers following you, I can’t.”

  “Are you asking if we can keep this just between us?” Maybe I should be offended by the request. The last thing I want is to be labeled just another one of Cage’s secrets, but I don’t want to be mentioned in the papers again, either.

  “That’s what I’m asking. Just you and me for a little while.”

  “I’m already a hot topic at work. If Travis McCoy gets word of us, he’ll eat me alive. So yeah, let’s try to stay out of the news for as long as we can.”

  The lines of Derek’s face go hard, and his brow knits. “Travis McCoy. Is that asshole bothering you? He’s always in the locker room, angling to get a shot at me.”

  I yawn. “That’s a long story for another time.”

  A soft growl leaves his throat, and he takes a deep breath. I yawn again and close my eyes.

  “Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later, and you can detail that long story. If this fucker messes with you, Hannah, he’s messing with me, too.”

  Derek slips out of my apartment, the door clicking behind him, and I’m left alone in the darkness, smiling. But my smile quickly fades. I told Derek I trusted him, and I do. If he knew the plans I had today, I wonder if he’d still be open to trusting me.

  The car door slips from my fingers, slamming harder than expected. I startle. The noise is a beacon in the quiet neighborhood. Winnetka, the affluent suburb on Chicago’s North Shore is abundant with soaring roofs, manicured lawns, and wide streets. The perfect neighborhood for the Cages to raise their only son.

  Stealing a lungful of crisp fall air, the scent of oak and pine gives me a false sense of peace. I’d parked in the stone circular driveway of a sprawling mansion, an ominous sight under a cloudy sky.

  A woman in her mid-fifties, her rust-colored hair unmoving in a short bob that frames her angular face and blue eyes stands on the threshold of the wide double doors, her fingers curling around the edge of the dark wooden door. Her body is frail under a navy wool cardigan, her beige trousers baggy. The slight amount of makeup she wears looks like a façade, a woman who’s barely holding it together. The man who approaches behind her has aged well, but his handsome features don’t hide the pain etched in his green eyes. He rakes a hand through his light brown hair before placing it on his wife’s shoulder.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Harold. I’m Hannah Black. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “Please, call us Greg and Lydia.” Greg moves next to his wife and holds out his hand. I shake it.

  When Larry gave me this assignment, I thought I’d be penning a biography on the life of Derek Cage. How wrong I was. I can’t write about Derek without including Lily, and I’m focused on proving his innocence. I’m going to reveal a side to the quarterback no one knew existed. A gentle side, a loving side, a fiercely protective side. I’m going to give them a man who would never take the life of another human, not one he loved, not even one he hated. When I’m done with Derek Cage, I’ll own his heart, I’ll own his soul, and I’ll refuse to give either back.

  We walk inside their home. It’s spacious and bright, the décor minimal, the light beige walls bare. The stark feeling a replica of the vibe portrayed in their solemn faces. When I was sixteen, a girl in my junior class was killed in a freak drowning accident, her parents left childless and heartbroken. People told them losing a child was like losing a limb, they simply needed to learn how to live without that part of their body. The Harolds are alive. Breathing the same air, walking the same earth, but they lost their hearts the day Lily died.

  Before we make it past the foyer, Lydia abruptly faces me. “I’ve seen you in the papers with Derek Cage.” Her words are an accusation, her tone harsh.

  “I’m writing his story.”

  “You two looked close,” she continues. Her two clenched fists tremble at her sides. The air buzzes with tension, and her voice is laced with anger.

  “Let’s sit down,” Greg says. “Let’s just . . . sit down.”

  My stiff shoulders drop at his weary tone, and I follow him into the living room, taking a seat at the edge of a soft gray sofa.

  Lydia sits across from me, her direct stare unwavering. “He killed our daughter. You must know the man you’re with is a murderer.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was like a son to us, Hannah,” Greg interrupts. “We’d known him since he was a baby. We treated him like he was ours, and then he destroyed us.”

  I’d been naïve in thinking I could come here and feel any sort of relief. They are looking for a shred of hope, somewhere to rest their blame for their daughter’s death, and I’m looking for answers. We both want the same thing but for very different reasons.

  “Can you tell me why you think Derek is guilty?”

  “There was proof,” Lydia says.

  They stare at me with conviction in their eyes. It’s haunting.

  Proof.

  I’m opening a wound that never healed. And my heart may suffer fatal consequences in the process, but this story needs to be told, the truth revealed, a man freed.

  When I exaggerated my expertise on sports to Larry Solomon, I’d wanted a job in one of the most lucrative industri
es in the nation. I thought I’d be reporting on ripped, tattooed athletes: convince them to tell their stories, make them cry when they talked about their childhoods or the day their children were born. I thought I’d fooled Larry into believing I could rattle off a statistic or game rule from memory, but Larry was the one who fooled me. He needed a journalist to earn Derek’s trust, a woman, an unknown with a reputation to break down barriers. He found me, and I won’t stop until I know the truth. Not just for me, but for Derek, and for the Harolds.

  “Can you please start at the beginning, Lydia? Tell me your story.”

  I turn my voice recorder on and place it between us.

  Proof.

  She looks at her husband for either strength or permission, possibly both. Greg places a hand on her trembling knee and nods for her to begin.

  Recounting the past as though it were yesterday, she shares her story. Each detail etched in her memory.

  “He was the sweetest little boy.” She looks at the wall behind me, as though she’s watching the past trickle by. “His dark hair was always combed, and his clothes perfectly clean. I knew they would eventually fall in love. At least, I’d hoped they would. He played with Lily like she was one of the boys, and she adored him.

  “When Madeline died, their bond only grew. I loved him like he was my own flesh and blood, and I knew he loved us too.”

  “What changed?” I ask.

  Lydia’s eyes find mine.

  “Everything. Derek met a boy named Reggie Maddox.”

  The name startles me. “What was the problem with Reggie?”

  Features etched with disdain, like she’d scold both boys if they were standing in front of her, Lydia continues. “That boy was trouble. Always. And Derek followed. Girls, football, and parties. He went from a sweet adolescent to a fast, troubled teen.”

  “Did Lily think so?”

  “Lily loved him. Any attention he gave her she held with a vise-like grip.”

  “But they were a couple. Derek has told me Lily was his girlfriend, that he loved her.”

  “She’d loved him since the day she set eyes on him, Hannah. When he turned their friendship into more, she was too far gone to see the negative.”