Elijah rises to his feet, towering over me, and even though he’s not taller than Travis, he makes me feel three feet small under his murderous glare. I swear there is steam coming out of his nostrils as he bellows at me.
“Fix this or I end him.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before he’s out the door, slamming it hard enough that the pictures rattle against my wall.
Twenty-Five
Travis
This isn’t how I imagined I’d spend my Christmas Eve, alone and in the clubhouse. I had hoped I’d be with Saylor and Lucy, or at the very least on my parents’ yacht. To say my life is epically fucked up right now would be an understatement. I was s
tupid to think that my name alone would be enough to clear me of any charges, but as time goes by, so does my resolve.
Irvin tells me that the charges will be dropped if I give him the name of my alibi. He had reminded me that the DA is grasping at straws and that he’s using the other women to make me admit to something I didn’t do. Until yesterday I believed him. Until yesterday I thought everything was going to go away but the look in Blue’s eyes, or Rachel’s, really hit home that this isn’t going away, and that she’s out for blood. She’s cold and calculated and clearly a very scorned woman because I didn’t take her home. I can’t even imagine what my life would be like now if I had, although I can’t imagine it could get much worse.
I was tempted to call the guys and see if they wanted to come work out, but the potential rejection was too much to take. Branch has his son, Cooper has his twins, and I’m sure Ethan has returned to Seattle. They all have lives and don’t have time to butter up my ego to make me feel better about myself because I’ve had another run-in with the woman accusing me of rape.
Honestly, I half expected to be woken up by the police, showing me their shiny handcuffs and reading me my rights. I scoured every online news agency, looking for any sign that the state’s attorney is coming after me, only to find the wires quiet.
What I haven’t done is call Saylor to apologize for ditching them yesterday. That wasn’t how the day, and night, was supposed to go. Everything started out so perfectly, and the run-in with that woman changed my entire outlook on life, the day, and who I was dragging down with me in this shit storm of trouble. Saylor and Lucy don’t deserve to be in the middle of this crisis, and honestly, I should’ve listened to Saylor from the beginning when she told me that she couldn’t be with me. But I pushed, and to her it probably looks like I got what I wanted and bailed. Classic Travis Kidd move.
The stadium is dark and cold, matching my mood—exactly how it should be. People should be home with their families today or out buying last-minute gifts. I had every intention of ordering everything that Lucy had asked Santa for, but only ended up with a few things before my sour mood last night found me nursing a bottle of vodka instead of trying to make a little girl’s Christmas morning more magical. Besides, if Saylor were smart, she’d tell Jeffrey to reassign her and let my public image swirl down the drain with the rest of the sidewalk trash.
As I get closer to the gym, I hear the voices of a few people who are lingering around the stadium, no doubt getting the venue prepped for the annual hockey match they hold the day after Christmas. Lowery Field is one of the few “family-owned” stadiums left in the big leagues, and when the Renegades aren’t occupying it during the season, it’s rented out. I’ve been here for weddings, corporate functions, college events, and concerts.
My name is mentioned, causing me to stop dead in my tracks. Eavesdropping is a terrible thing to do, but it can be informative. The voices are around the corner from where I’m standing, and they’re loud and clear.
“I can’t believe they haven’t released him yet.”
“You know he’s brought women in here before.”
“I don’t feel safe knowing he can come in here any time he wants.”
“He’s probably going to have to pay her off.”
“I can’t believe it’s taken this long for someone to report him.”
“He’s a rapist, and I don’t feel safe here anymore.”
Each jab cuts deeper and deeper. I have the urge to turn the corner and show my face, but seeing fear in the eyes of the people that work here is not something I want to witness. They can have their own feelings, but I wish they’d consider mine. Although by the words they spew, I’m guilty, so it doesn’t matter how I feel.
I turn around and take the long way to the gym, trying to keep my emotions in check. I’m on the verge of beating the shit out of someone, or crying. Fuck, maybe I need to do both. This is my life that’s hanging in the balance, and since I saw the victim yesterday, I can’t get over the fact that she seemed cocky, undeterred by our chance meeting. Shouldn’t a woman fear her attacker instead of threatening him? I’m all for women empowerment, but fuck this shit. Two days from now, this all ends, or I’m going to file a countersuit against her. Of course, that won’t go over well with the media, but I’m sick of living this fucking nightmare. People need to know I’m innocent.
As soon as I step into the gym and the lights come on, I’m relieved to see that our punching bag is back. Plugging my iPod in, I turn on my heavy metal playlist, tape my knuckles, and get to work on the bag. It’s her face I picture each time I hit the target. I was raised to never hit a woman, but fuck if I don’t want to do it now. This game she’s playing is fucking with my life.
Each hit is harder than the previous one, and the red seeping through the tape isn’t enough to stop me. I don’t care if I’m bloodied, if the skin of my knuckles is breaking from each punch—the pain is welcomed. It’s needed so I can feel human again, so I can feel what it’s like to be hurt and not just broken.
My music shuts off, causing me to turn mid-punch. Standing next to my iPod is Easton Bennett, shortstop and a guy who has his own troubles with women.
“What’s up?” I say, nodding toward him and my music at the same time. Seriously, who the fuck comes into the gym and shuts off a man’s playlist?
He shakes his head slowly. “Not much. I heard you were here, so I thought I’d come see you.”
I turn back to the bag and start punching. “Could’ve called. I’ve been home.”
“This really isn’t a social visit, Kidd.”
I stop again and rest my arm on the top of the bag to hold it steady. “If you got something to say, say it.”