Only I know the real Caleb, and it’s a violent intimacy I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
“Really? That’s a shame.” Sylvia flicks a glance between the two of us, like she’s unsure where to direct her dismay. Instinctively, she knows that I have little say.
“It’s all arranged, though,” Sylvia continues … nervously? Yes, nervously. She doesn’t know Caleb is a predator, but on some cellular level, maybe atavistically, her body knows, and it makes her nervous.
The heart speaks in whispers.
I heard too late.
“The kids are looking forward to seeing your family, even though you can’t be there,” she says. “We have signed jerseys and autographed photos for Iris to pass out, and we thought the kids could meet your daughter. You’re one of the Stingers’ star players. That would go a long way with them.”
Sylvia looks to me like she expects me to advocate for myself. She has no idea that her request will earn me a slap or worse when I get home. Maybe a hard pinch under the table. Caleb is usually careful with my face—with all the parts people see. Only when he knows he can keep me home long enough to heal does he hit my face. If I have my phone with me, he’ll make sure I have no real evidence to display. And when I have real evidence of his brutality, my phone will go ‘missing’ for days. He and Ramone have my captivity down to a science.
“I’m away next week,” Caleb says, picking up a glass of wine and taking a sip. He looks casual, but I’m so tuned into him now, to his moods, that I know there’s nothing casual about him. He’s tense at my side, a predator feeling threatened—like he might lose his prey if she gets out of her cage. “I’m away for the next two weeks actually, in China.”
Basketball is exploding there, and the market is so ripe Caleb and his agent are exploring endorsement opportunities. Thank God Sarai has been sick and couldn’t get the necessary shots. The pediatrician didn’t clear her to travel, so I get two weeks without Caleb. Ramone will still be there, but Ramone doesn’t hit me. Doesn’t rape me. He just makes sure I never get away.
Complicit bastard.
“We knew you wouldn’t be there, though.” Sylvia frowns. “We could—”
“Iris is very particular about who watches Sarai,” Caleb cuts in, sliding his thumb over my bare shoulder.
“Sarai is fine with the childcare provided for the event tonight, right?” Sylvia directs her question to me.
“Yes, of course. They seem awesome,” I say. “And Sarai loves people. She loves to be out and interacting with other children.”
Caleb doesn’t look at me, but his displeasure nicks the surface of my composure.
“And there will be childcare at the community center for the players’ wives and girlfriends’ children,” Sylvia says. “You’re welcome to inspect the area and meet the workers, Iris. That is if you still want to do it?”
Shit.
Of course, I do, but it’s not worth the fight. I pick and choose my b
attles, and this is not a battle I choose. I’m still searching for the best response when someone beats me to it.
“I think it’s a great idea,” Michael Cross says.
I hadn’t spoken to the Stingers’ president of basketball operations seated at our table all night, but now I’m really glad he’s here.
“We could use some goodwill after all that talk of a dirty play with August West,” he says sternly. “That cloud still hangs over the organization.”
An awkward silence falls on the table, one with clearing throats and bodies shifting in straight-backed chairs. Not me. I remember what happened when I accused Caleb of hurting August on purpose. I’m quiet. I’m still, but August’s name lands heavily on my ears. Even heavier on my heart.
“The league didn’t fine me,” Caleb says, his “I’m handsome and harmless” smile firmly in place. “Nothing was proven because it was an accident. Shit happens when you’re on the court.”
“Yeah, well, it’s bad for the team’s image. And West getting Rookie of the Year didn’t help,” Michael says, his eyes hard on Caleb.
What a night that was.
When August was named Rookie of the Year, I knew we would have a bad night. He actually doesn’t bother me sexually very much—probably because he’s getting it everywhere else. If I could send those women fruit baskets, I would. But that night, no one else would do. August wasn’t there for him to take out his rage on, and I was the next best thing.
“Let’s decorate that pretty face West seems to like so much,” he’d grunted, ejaculating all over my face. His semen had flooded my mouth, blurred my vision, invaded my nose, and sunk into my pores.
“Iris, do you still want to do it?” Michael Cross’s question jerks me back to the table, into the conversation. “Would you do it?”
All eyes on me.