Breaking Cage Page 9

“Whatever happens, Derek, I need you to know I love you. I’ve never wanted anything but the best for you.”

  “Is that why you had Mom killed? Thought I’d be better off without her?” I’ve never made it a secret how I feel about my father’s involvement in my mom’s death. But this is the first time he’s responded.

  “There are things you don’t know about your mother. About her family.”

  “Cut the crap, Dad. Save it for the campaign.”

  He sits back, clasps his hands, and makes it clear he’s not leaving anytime soon. We are having this conversation whether I want to or not.

  “I loved your mother more than anything else on this earth, Derek. I was trying to save her, not kill her.”

  My hands curl into fists. “You sure fucked up then, didn’t you? Somehow, she ended up in the ground, and here you are, all high and mighty.”

  “Derek.” It’s a warning. His voice is low, his mood calm.

  I’m sick of his warnings.

  I stand and face my kitchen sink. I can’t look at him, can’t hear his voice anymore. My mother was sweet and kind. She couldn’t handle the pressure of his life. I saw it when I was a child. He should have noticed when he was forty. He paraded her in front of the media, even though she hated it. He made her a Cage, then failed to protect her.

  Years after her death, I watched him go on with his life as though nothing changed. Running for office as though the prestige of our family’s heritage was not enough, he needed more. He always needed more.

  But my life had fallen apart. The Harolds raised me until Lily was killed. Then they turned their backs on me, too. How could they have thought I killed their daughter? She was my world. I had no one, which left me with nothing but my football career. I threw myself into it. My life became the turf, and I was fine with that, but the rumors still swirled.

  “I don’t want to be a part of your campaign.” I talk to the sink, not trusting myself to face him. “Leave Mom and me out of it.”

  “You have an idealized vision of your mother.”

  “Don’t tell me what I feel about Mom.” I spin to face him.

  “She loved you, Derek. With a passion I’d never seen before, she loved you. When you’re ready, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. When you’re ready to listen, I’ll tell you why Madeline died.”

  Selfish bastard.

  He stands, turns his back on me, and walks out of the kitchen. I hear the front door open and click closed.

  Coward.

  My face lands in my hands. Fuck my life. I walk to my sofa and slump down into it. Fuck. Why did he come today? I’d finally had a moment of . . . happiness. Hannah. I want to kick my ass for involving Hannah in my life. Logic would keep me away from her, would save her from the inevitable pain my involvement in her life will cause. But never talking to her, never touching her, never listening to her sweet, sexy voice . . . I’m the selfish bastard.

  Four weeks of NFL locker rooms, boys club meetings, and nothing but men have flown by. The locker room has gotten easier, the boys club . . . not so much. Every Monday at eight a.m. sharp, I take a seat next to Chandler. He fills me in on his weekend, which usually involves one drunken night, one hook-up, and two days’ worth of self-loathing. By the time Monday rolls around, he’s human again.

  “Maybe you should stay in this Saturday. Take a breather,” I suggest.

  “That’s what Fridays are for, Sunshine. Did I not mention I only go out on Saturday nights?”

  “You made that part clear.”

  “Come with me this weekend. I’ll show you the hottest clubs in all the Midwest.”

  In the short time I’ve worked at Century in Rewind, I’ve forged a bond with Chandler. He’s fun, he’s honest, and he always saves me a seat in these God-awful meetings. But a night at a gay club means a night alone, as he’ll inevitably ditch me for the first hot man he sees.

  “Thanks, Chandler. I’ll think about it.”

  “Liar.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve already thought about it, and your answer’s no. Sunshine, someone needs to teach you how to lie.”

  My cheeks burn.

  “We’d have fun if you’d give us a chance, Sunshine.”

  “Chandler, I have the wrong anatomy. I’m not what you’re looking for.”

  “True, but we could be wingmen. You’d bring in hot and sexy men, and I’d turn them. You have no idea how many straight men have a gay side to them.”

  “Okay, conversation over.”

  The room is almost full, and the moment I dread, the event that takes place every Monday at exactly 8:05 a.m. occurs.

  “Here he comes,” Chandler whispers.

  The he is Travis McCoy. He swaggers in with his buzz cut and shifty blue eyes. He takes his seat and then . . . he stares at me. It’s not friendly, and it’s not mean, just a curious stare to see if I’m real or if I’m still a member of this team. It goes on for approximately two minutes before he looks away. Two minutes sounds short but feels like hours when you’re being watched. Most of the other men have come to accept me. Some make idle conversation, others acknowledge me with a smile, and a select few act as though I blend in with the furniture. Not Travis. He hasn’t softened, If anything, he’s gotten meaner. Maybe it’s his eyes on me that keep that constant feeling of never being alone or maybe I feel as though I take his gaze with me everywhere I go. But he has it out for me, and whether he’s been stalking me or simply sending a warning, I won’t back down to his silent threats.

  “Ignore him, Sunshine. He has a complex.”

  “Which is?”

  “An incredibly small dick.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Look at his hands.”

  I’m about to ask if that comparison is true when Larry walks in, and all eyes shift to him. The rest of the meeting goes on as expected. By the end, I’m ready to get back to work. In addition to my Derek stalking, I’m working on a few human interest pieces on some of the rookie players. Larry wants a head start once these newbies make a name for themselves, and as they are eager to talk and get their name in the press, I’ve enjoyed getting to know them as well. Eventually, my assignment with Derek is going to end, and I’ll need a job. Larry would like to keep me here. I’m not sure how I feel about that yet.

  I walk back to my office and toss my files and phone on my desk. My phone immediately buzzes.

  Unknown: Meet me out front of your place tonight at 7.

  I stare at the text in confusion.

  Me: Who is this?

  Unknown: It’s me, Freckles.

  Me: Derek? How did you get my number?

  Derek: I’m an NFL football star. I can get anything I want. And right now I want to show you what it means to be a Midwesterner.

  Shit. I instantly feel relief and then chide myself for entertaining anything but a professional relationship with Derek Cage. It’s been a week since I woke up in his bed and my body hasn’t felt entirely mine . . . like it has unfinished business with Derek. I’ve been tense all week, my emotions scattered. One minute hoping he’d forget the entire incident, the next hurt that he’d let this much time pass without a word. I shouldn’t feel this euphoric that he wants to see me, but the heart can be more powerful than the mind. It’s almost impossible for me not to involve my emotions in anything sexual, and while I’m trying to keep a hard line where my heart and Derek Cage are concerned, I feel that line slipping and my resolve wavering.

  The rational part of me screams to stay away. He could be a killer, a monster. He serves one purpose in my life, and it has nothing to do with our body parts connecting. But my curious side is begging to be noticed.

  The young man from the mailroom interrupts my thoughts. “Hey, Jack, what’s that?”

  “Delivery. Came in about ten minutes ago.”

  He places a gold box on my desk and leaves before I can ask any questions. I pull at the card, excited and curious.

  “Smile! Someone’s watching
.”

  What the hell? I flip the card around, looking for a signature, any sign as to who sent this. There’s nothing.

  I carefully open the gold linen box and regret it the minute I do. Shit.

  There are over a dozen photos starring Derek and me as we make out like two teenaged school kids at Johnny’s. I filter through them one by one. They chronicle the moment, beginning from the initial kiss down to when Reggie is dragging Derek away.

  Am I being followed?

  My breath shortens. My skin burns. A wide range of emotions from embarrassment and fear wash through me. Why would someone send this to me? It could be anything from a crazed fan of Derek’s to a publicity stunt. I should show these to Larry, ask for his help in tracking down the sender, but then my actions will be exposed, putting my job at risk. Fuck.

  I drop the photos back into the box and secure it, my hands unsteady. I pick up my phone and call Gwen.

  “Hannah, what’s shaking?”

  “We hooked up.” The words tumble from my mouth, no filter, no stopping, full disclosure.

  “Slow down there. I thought you said something about hooking up.”

  “I did. We kissed and . . . well, we kissed, and I need some advice.”

  “Hannah. Who’s we?”

  I pause. I’m about to admit this out loud, and while I know it happened, it now feels more real. “Derek Cage.”

  She falls silent, and a stone of dread settles in my gut. “When?”

  “Monday night. At Johnny’s. It was unexpected, and I haven’t seen him since, but I just received a box and someone photographed us.”

  “Well, yeah. Of course someone did. Hannah, he’s Derek Cage, and you sucked his face in the middle of a crowded bar. What did you expect?”

  “So you don’t think it was some type of threat?”

  “Like a jealous girl who wishes she was in the photos? If you’re going to hang around people like the Cage clan, then you’d better get used to this. Have you seen him since?”

  If paparazzi took these shots, then why not sell them? What’s the point of sending these to me if it’s not a warning?

  “He just texted me. He wants to see me tonight.”

  “Fuck, Hannah. Derek Cage? That’s like winning the orgasm lottery.”

  ”Gwen, he might be a murderer.”

  “Suspected. Not the same thing.”

  After I had learned the brief history of Lily Harold, I’d filled Gwen in. She’d found little in her interrogation of family friends, and had been fascinated that Derek had such a haunted past. She wasn’t ready to burn him at the stake, and she still isn’t.

  “Gwen, am I in danger?”

  “No,” she says too quickly. “I don’t think so. Maybe it was a one-time deal. You know, like an O.J. Simpson-type of case. I don’t think he’s a serial killer or anything that horrible.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “Think about it this way. In the past eleven years, he’s stayed above the law, been a model citizen. That has to count for something.”

  “I can glean some information from meeting up with him tonight.”

  “You mean like use it in your story? Try to get him to talk?”

  “Yeah. Harmless, right?”

  She doesn’t respond, which furthers my unease. “Sure,” she finally says. “Why not?”

  We hang up, and I stare at my phone. His text is waiting for a response, one I’m still not ready to deliver. With McCoy and his creepy staring problem, and now these anonymous photos, my nerves are fried.

  The scent of her lingers in my room. The feel of her mouth sliding against mine is a constant tug on my groin. She’s all I’ve thought about for the past week. I drive through the streets of Chicago, my destination five minutes away. It was easy enough finding out where she lives. Getting her to see me will be a different story. She never responded to my text, never agreed to meet me. But that’s not how I roll.

  She’s leaving her building, her friend from the bar by her side. I pull onto her street, and notice her long dark curls falling down her back. Hannah’s painted-on jeans accentuate the soft curve of her hips and the roundness of her ass as it sways with each step she takes. I could stake out behind her all night, watch that ass sway in rhythm to her stride, watch her smile and laugh, get lost in the carefree demeanor she presents. I should continue on my way, the lightness in my chest a warning that I’m already too attached, but I find myself addicted where Hannah Black is concerned.

  Both women abruptly turn when they hear me approach. I idle the Ducati and remove my helmet. Hair falls around my face, and I flick it away.

  “Derek,” Hannah says, with an edge to her sensuous voice. She takes an abrupt step back, her arms wrapping around her body in a protective hug. “What are you doing here?”

  There is an element of caution, if not downright fear, in her tone.

  I turn the engine off and stand. “Thought we had a date at seven.”

  “I never responded.”

  “I took that as a yes.”

  Hannah fights a smile, and Gwen outright laughs.

  “I have plans,” she says and shoots a glance at Gwen.

  “Don’t look at me,” Gwen says with her hands up in surrender.

  “Hannah,” I take a step forward, “look at me.”

  She does. I see angst, curiosity. I see a woman torn between what she thinks is right and what she desires.

  I hold out a hand. Words are not going to convince her to jump on my bike, only actions.

  “I don’t have a helmet.”

  Holding up my spare, I will her to take it. “It’s probably the last night I can take Priscilla out before the weather changes.”

  “Priscilla?” she and Gwen ask in unison.

  “Get on, and I’ll tell you why that’s her name.”

  Gwen shoves Hannah in my direction, and she doesn’t resist.

  “Hi, Gwen.”

  She winks. “Take care of my girl.”

  My heart and mind ease as I watch Hannah saunter up to me. “Nice ride, Cage.”

  “Hop on.”

  She slides behind me, each leg molding to the back of mine. I take a minute to catch my breath, to adjust to the feeling of her so close, before handing her the spare helmet.

  “Wrap your arms around me and hold on tight. If you need me to stop for any reason, yell into my ear. If I don’t stop, pinch me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  My dick stiffens.

  “Watch it, Hannah, or we can move this upstairs, and I’ll show you a different type of Midwestern ride.”

  She wraps her arms around me and rests her head on my back, her body vibrating with silent laughter. A sense of comfort engulfs me . . . a feeling of peace.

  I hit the accelerator, and we’re off.

  The wind is chilly, but the warmth from Hannah’s body is like a flame. I ride toward Lakeshore Drive and head out of the city.

  I love the Midwest. Have always loved it for its kind people, crazy weather, and nights like these, where you can go miles and miles with nothing in your way. Rushing down Lakeshore Drive, the sting of the crisp fall air coming off the lake soothes something inside me. The farther you get from the city, the more open the land feels. The smell of burning leaves permeates the air.

  We ride for almost half an hour before I veer off the main road. There’s nothing but woodland and open fields on either side of us. The sun begins to set, turning the sky into a blue and purple portrait made for an artist.

  Hundreds of wild yellow daisies appear on our right. Pulling into the flowers, I drive until we can’t see the road. I cut the engine and everything stills. The stars are beginning to shine in the cloudless sky and the buzzing of insects hum into the night. The crunch of our feet on the brush crackles in our ears like a thunderstorm.

  “It’s beautiful,” Hannah says. She removes her helmet, and her hair explodes around her face, wild and untamed. The smell of wilderness is intense, and the sound of s
erenity engulfs us.

  I could lay her down right here and strip her bare, release her from those clothes, and take her in the most primal way.

  “The leaves are starting to change.” Her voice is childlike in wonder.

  “In a few weeks this area will be bursting with colors. It’s incredible.”

  “The leaves don’t change in Los Angeles, only the air.” She walks toward them, and any doubt I had that this was a bad idea vanishes.

  “The air?”

  She nods. “Yeah. Everyone complains that LA doesn’t have seasons, but those are the people who aren’t natives. All you have to do is smell the air to know when you aren’t in summer anymore, and fall is upon us. It’s nothing as beautiful as this, but it’s there if you’re paying close enough attention.”

  The Midwest can be harsh with its frigid winters and scorching summers, but it can also be beautiful. And I wouldn’t want anyone else introducing Hannah to the allure of Illinois.

  “You have the beach,” I remind her. “That’s beautiful.”

  She nods. “But there’s always people there. Nothing this remote and open.”

  Skimming the flowers with her hand, she walks forward, feeling, smelling, taking it all in. I place both our helmets on the bike and follow her.

  “You’re not like most Angelenos I’ve met.”

  Her eyebrows rise while she walks backward, leading me deeper into the dense foliage. “What does that mean?”

  “Blonde, fake tits, fake butt.”

  Laughing, she holds on to her ass and shakes her head. “How many times have you been to Los Angeles, Derek?”

  I shrug. “A few.”

  “Trust me, we’re not all plastic.”

  Grabbing her hand, I entwine our fingers and stand with her under the darkening sky. “Do you know I’ve never touched a fake boob?”

  “Never?” she asks, surprised.

  “Never.”

  “What about all those groupies?”

  “I’ve already told you, Hannah. I stay away from groupies. I stay away from trouble.”

  Pulling her to me, I stare into her doubting brown eyes.

  “I’ve heard some rumblings about you being in trouble.”

  It’s an innocent remark, but I tense all the same. “Are you talking about the time I was caught with a Hustler magazine in the eight-grade bathroom?”