by Kennedy Ryan
“I’m sorry, Iris.” He shakes his head. “I’ve told him before—”
“He’s done this before?” Horror widens my eyes and drops my mouth open. “Oh my God.”
“I’ve . . . well, helped him before, yeah.”
“You mean when he beat women, you came and patched them up?” I ask sarcastically. “Would have been good to know.”
“I thought he had it under control.” He runs his hands through hair only a shade darker than Caleb’s. “This hasn’t happened in a long time, and he loves you so much.”
“Don’t you dare say that ever again.” Tears rise in my throat like floodwaters. I wait for them to recede before speaking. “He may deceive himself that this is love, but I won’t play that game. He’s sick, and so are you if you help him.”
I stand in the middle of the bedroom and catch the first glimpse of myself in the wall mirror. The sheet knotted toga-style leaves my shoulders and arms exposed. Caleb’s brutality has painted my skin in shades of black and red, of desolation and rage. My face . . .
A moan, loud and involuntary, falls out of me and bounces off the walls.
My cheeks are uneven, one monstrously swollen and the other nearly untouched. One eye is smeared with shadows left by Caleb’s fist. A line of dried blood runs from the corner of my mouth down my neck and disappears beneath the fold of the sheet. I gently touch the swollen, bruised, puffy flesh.
I turn from the mirror to Andrew. “You have to help me.”
He takes a step back, his expression withdrawing as surely as his body does. “I can’t, Iris. I have painkillers, and—”
“Painkillers?” I sound hysterical, but I can’t help it. “He raped me at gunpoint last night, Andrew, and he beat me today.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry.”
“He’s blackmailing me,” I say in a rush, praying that everything I reveal will somehow convince him he has to help me. “He stole my journal and will twist the things I wrote to get custody of Sarai if I try to leave. He had Ramone, that crazy bodyguard, report me to social services. He’s cut off all my access to money. He says he’ll kill me if I try to leave, Andrew, and I believe him.” Tears flow freely while I rehash just how screwed over I am—how I’ve allowed Caleb to trap me.
“What about Lotus?” Andrew asks.
“He says he’ll hurt her, too, if I involve her. He knows where she lives in New York.” I swipe my hands over my wet cheeks. “No, just getting away from him won’t solve my custody issue. His threats would catch up to me. I need something on him that will stick, to hurt him where it counts the way he’s doing me.”
“Caleb’s good at threats,” he says bitterly. “He deals in information.”
“That’s why you help him?” I ask. “He has something on you? That’s why you can’t help me?”
Andrew’s lips compress. “I can get you more painkillers.”
“I don’t want painkillers!” I scream. “I want to not need them. I want to get out of here.” I bury my face in my hands, slumping against the wall and allowing myself one moment of weakness. “I have to get Sarai out of here.”
“I think things will get better,” Andrew says. “He probably just lost it, what with August humiliating him like that.”
“He didn’t humiliate him,” I counter. “He just played the game. Caleb let him get in his head, like he always does.”
“I know you say he doesn’t love you.” Andrew holds up a staying hand when I open my mouth to argue. “But he’s never felt like this about another woman.”
“Oh, you mean abusive? Violent? Psychopathic? Wow. I feel so flattered.”
“No, I mean you must be special to him. He’s marrying you.”
“We’re not engaged,” I auto-reply.
Andrew’s brows bunch, and he tips his head toward my left hand. “Then what’s that on your finger?”
I glance down and notice for the first time, my gris-gris ring from MiMi is gone.
In its place is the ten-carat diamond.
23
August
Number thirty-three.
I lift my father’s old basketball jersey out of the cardboard box, coughing a little from the dust. I’ve seen pictures of me as a toddler wearing this. It hung off my shoulders and dragged on the floor. Now, when I slip it over my head, it fits perfectly. At six foot seven inches, my dad was an inch taller than I am. His wingspan outreached mine and his feet were a size larger, but that’s where I stop making comparisons. I leave that to the pundits and media who speculate about what he could have been and what I may achieve. He was cut down so young before he really had the chance to fulfill even a fraction of his promise.
I massage the soreness in my leg and wonder if I’ll repeat history. The easy part of this recovery is over. I’ve been mostly off my feet for the eight weeks since surgery. I recently started upper-body work in a gym close by, just outside of Baltimore, and that is only the beginning. Months of grueling rehab lie ahead with no guarantee that I’ll be a hundred percent at the end. Speed and agility, the ability to turn on a dime—those are trademarks of my game and are things this injury could compromise irreparably. Only time and the hardest work of my life will tell.
Fucking Caleb and his dirty play that wasn’t ruled a dirty play. He’s slithered his way out of consequences all his life. It’s made him spoiled and cruel, but also clever enough to hide it. Me, he hates, so he did some underhanded shit that shoved me, at least temporarily, out of the way.
He’d never hurt them, though, right?
The more I’ve considered it, flat on my back and staring up at the ceiling, the less confident I am of Caleb’s boundaries. God, if I had Iris, I’d treat her like a queen.
Can you miss someone you’ve never had?
Because I miss Iris. I can’t even share that with anyone because they’d think I was a lunatic. Obsessed. Fixated.
I like to think of it as certain. Like when I’m in the zone, the game comes to me easily and I’m certain I’ll make every shot before the ball even leaves my hands—that’s how I feel about Iris. She’s a shot that hasn’t even left my hands, but I know will be nothing but net. I’m certain that if ever given the chance, it would be that way for us. Not that things would be easy all the time, but we’d just . . . click. We’d belong, something we’ve both needed for a long time. I felt hints of it the first night we met, and with each encounter, it’s become clearer. It’s quantified in breathless moments and skipped heartbeats. Nothing I can point to or prove, but it’s real. I’ve only grown more sure that together, we could belong.
“What are you doing out here?” my mother asks from the open garage door. “I was looking all over the house for you. Your phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning.”
“Probably Lloyd.” I grimace at the thought of another conversation with my agent. “He thinks he may be able to get me a good trade.”
“Trade?” Mom’s brows collapse into a frown. “Do the Waves wanna get rid of you because of the injury? Don’t they know you’ll be back stronger than ever? What’s wrong with them?”
I wish everyone had a mother like mine who believed in them even when they weren’t sure themselves.
“Lloyd’s just looking at contingencies.” I shrug and pull my father’s jersey over my head and drop it back into the box. “The Waves are an expansion team, and this was their first season. Decker invested a lot in me. Me getting hurt my first year probably has them considering cutting their losses in case I don’t come back as strong.”
“Your first season ended with you as Rookie of the Year.” Her eyes and smile are all pride. “They’d be fools to let you go.”
“Maybe I’d be a fool to stay.” I release a puff of air. “I could end up on a team that’s championship caliber now. Maybe in the playoffs next season, playing for a ring. If Lloyd can make that happen, I’d be a fool to turn it down.”
“You’ll know what to do when you get to it. You’ll know what�
��s most important. I’m sure Jared will have opinions.”
“Oh, always.” I laugh. “And on everything.”
She hands my phone to me. “You two still considering getting Elevation off the ground early?” she asks, poking through the box of memories.
“I want to. He’s not sure, which means we probably will.”
She chuckles, nodding and pulling out a photo album at the bottom of the box. “You do tend to get your way, August.”
“Eventually. Sometimes.” I pause at the look on her face as she flips through the album. It’s love, and pain, and regret. “What’s that you’re looking at?”
She turns the album to show me a photo. It’s a picture I’ve never seen. My mom, dad and I are standing on a basketball court with a packed stadium in the background, and my father is holding me, his arm wrapped around my mother. I’ve never thought we looked alike, but in this picture, I see echoes of my features in his.
“Wow,” I say softly. “We actually do look a little alike.”
“Of course you do.” She brushes a fingertip over my father’s face. “He’s darker and his hair is coarser, but that bone structure. Same handsome face. Same mouth.”
Her smile is wistful, and maybe slightly wicked. I’m sure she has memories of his mouth that I want to know nothing about. So much of what I know about my father has been through the media and old friends telling stories. There are things I never asked my mother that maybe only she knows.
“Was he a good man?” I ask, watching her face for the truth. I don’t miss the bitter tilt of her lips settle into ruefulness.
“He was a great father.” She looks up from the photo. “He loved you more than anything. He was so good to you.”
“And to you?” I ask softly, prepared for whatever she answers. “What kind of husband was he?’
She hesitates, considering the picture again before looking in my eyes. “What kind of husband was he?” She tosses my question back before twisting her mouth into that rueful little curve. “A young, handsome one, with lots of money and time on the road.”
“Like me then,” I half-joke. “Sometimes I see so many parallels between us.”
“You won’t make the choices your father did when you’re married, August. I’m not worried about that.”
“Really?” I ask, thinking about all the ass I pulled in my rookie year. “Why not?”
“Because I raised you better than that.” She winks and brushes her hands over my hair. “You just need to find the right girl.”
Of course, my mind defaults to Iris—to the last time I saw her laughing with Sarai and bouncing her on her knee. Reminder. Another man’s baby bouncing on her knee.
“Maybe I’ve found the right girl.” I close the flaps of the box. “Maybe it’s just a matter of timing.”
It’s hard for me to surprise my mother. She usually sees everything coming from a mile away, but her eyes stretch, and her mouth drops open.
“Do I know her?” she demands. “Is she in San Diego? How did you meet her? When can I meet her?”
“Uh, Mom.” I hold up a hand to stay the tsunami of questions coming off her in waves. “It’s not like that. I mean, it is. For me it is. I’d bring her to meet you right now if I could.”
“She doesn’t want to be with you?” She rests her fists on her hips, the Irish feistiness to match that red hair sparking in her eyes. “Does she have any idea what she’s missing?”
“She doesn’t care about my contract or the money or any of that stuff.” Even though Iris is with Caleb, I know it’s not because he has any of those things. And as soon as I figure out why she is with him, I’ll convince her it’s not enough. Not as much as I could give her.
“Those aren’t the things I meant either,” Mom says. “You’re kind, and generous, and smart, and ambitious. I raised you to know how to treat a woman. She’d be lucky to have you.”
“Thanks, Mom, though you might be just a little biased. I think you’d like her.” My smile drops. “I mean, if she ever leaves her boyfriend.”
“August, what?” Her eyes stretch. “Tell me.”
“It’s a long story.”
She crosses her arms and sits on one of the nearby bins in the garage. “Do I look busy?”
I pull up a bin and tell her about that first night before the tournament, how Iris and I talked about any and everything; we shared our pasts, our families, our dreams, and hopes. I tell her how disappointed I was to realize Iris was dating Caleb. I leave out the part where I saw her naked breast at All-Star weekend, but I hit other highlights, ending with the last time I saw her, at the game before Caleb’s dirty play.
“So you’ve only seen her a few times?” Mom asks. The consternation on her face gives me pause. She thinks I’m crazy. I know I am.
“But we talked for hours the first time,” I say, hearing the defensiveness in my voice. “We talked about everything. I’ve never felt that connected to someone so quickly. And even at the All-Star game, it was like we just picked right back up.” I toss my phone back and forth between my hands and shrug. “I know what you’re thinking—it’s some infatuation. Or maybe you think I just like her because she’s Caleb’s girl, right?”
“I knew Matt was the one after our first date.” She chuckles at the startled look that must be on my face. “I did. We had exactly what you’re talking about. That ease. That spark. It feels like you’re the only two people in the world.”
That first night in the bar, I didn’t even notice the other customers leaving. I didn’t notice the bartender cleaning up. I barely noticed the game ending.
“She absorbed me,” I say, shaking my head. “I’d never felt that way about anyone else. When she told me she had a boyfriend, I felt like she was reading from the wrong script. Like that’s not how this is supposed to go. How can it possibly go that way when I feel like this already?”
I roll my eyes, playing my words back in my own ears. “I sound like a chick.”
“And what’s wrong with sounding like a woman?” Mom’s offended words chastise me.
“You know what I mean. Like all in my feelings. Desperate.” I catch her sharp look. “Not saying that all women are desperate. I just mean I sound like I would do anything to be with her.”
“Based on what you told me about her family history, maybe she needs someone who’s willing to take an outrageous chance on her. It sounds like she hasn’t had the easiest life and has seen a lot of bad in men.”
“I don’t get why she’s still with that asshole.” I run an agitated hand through the hair dipping over my eyes. “If you could have felt what was between us that night at the game. Neither one of us could look away. It’s still there for me, and I know it’s still there for her. I know how it sounds, but I’m not making this up.”
“She has a child with this man, August. You said she was on bed rest and couldn’t work. She probably has very little of her own. You never know what a mother has to do to do what’s best for her child.”
She grins.
“Even knowing I loved Matt, it was a long time before I let him fully into my life. I wanted to protect you. It hadn’t been long since your father died, and you were so impressionable. I had to be careful about who I brought around you. I had to be careful about everything. It seems to me circumstances have made your Iris more vulnerable than she ever wanted to be.”
My Iris.
It feels like all the stars and planets and the moon itself will have to align for her to be my Iris.
“I know you don’t like the comparisons with your father,” Mom interrupts my thoughts. “But there is one thing you inherited from him for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“Timing.” Her smile turns fond, her eyes distant. “He’d hold the ball ’til the last possible second. I’m screaming from the bleachers for him to take the shot, but he’d just dribble and watch the clock, and at just the right moment, he’d take the shot.”
“You’re right.” I laugh, becau
se I remember watching tape of him when I was younger and thinking the same thing.
“As immature and impetuous as your father sometimes was off the court,” Mom says, “on the court, he was a study in patience and vision. Seeing the right opportunity and taking the shot when it was time. He used to call it ‘letting the game come to him.’ Try that approach with Iris. Let the game come to you, and at the right time, take the shot.”
My phone rings, startling us both. I grimace when I see Lloyd’s name onscreen. I’m a grown-ass man. I need to take care of my career the same way I’m taking care of this leg, and that means talking to Lloyd. “I need to take this. I’ve been dodging my agent.”
“Alright.” She stands and dusts off her jeans. She drops a kiss on my unruly curls. “And at some point, you will get a haircut, right?”
“Rehab hair. This is why I don’t let it grow.” I sift my fingers through the thick curls flopping everywhere and answer Lloyd’s call.
Lloyd takes forty-five minutes to tell me ten minutes’ worth of information, so I’m chomping at the bit to get off the phone by the time he’s bringing the conversation to a close.
“I’ll email those contracts over for you to look at and sign,” he says. “We need to get that commercial in the can. I suggested we not do it in your San Diego jersey, just to be safe.”
“It’s like that?” I ask, not sure if I’m excited or insulted that San Diego may be seriously considering trading me. At the start of the season it would have been what I wanted, but I had just started to feel like we were building something special.
“We’ll see.” Lloyd’s voice is diplomatic and dissembling. “I like to have contingencies. No telling when that commercial will air or where you’ll be by then. Oh, and did you speak to that Sylvia lady?”
“What Sylvia lady?” I’m only half listening, re-opening my dad’s box and picking through it to make sure I didn’t overlook anything significant.
“She called me this morning saying she’s left several voicemails for you. Something about NBA charity stuff and you wanting to volunteer in Baltimore.”